


the ship of dreams

by laurxnts, vannes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:24:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 62,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9073798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurxnts/pseuds/laurxnts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannes/pseuds/vannes
Summary: Victor steps onto the gangway behind his mother and father, letting his ears fall deaf to their idle Russian chatter, and looks up at the ship, basking in her shadow. As his feet touch soft, velvet-red carpet, he tries very hard not to feel like the Titanic is his prison ship; dragging him to America, to his perfectly-planned future in chains, kicking and screaming with every last inch of his dying will.  Yuuri and Victor board the Titanic having never crossed paths—Yuuri had won his tickets in a last-minute game of cards, Victor had boarded as the first-class son of a business tycoon, destined to inherit his father's millions. The last thing they expect is to be caught up in each others' lives, and to become desperately entangled in a love affair that threatens to ruin them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just putting in a brief mention that, since this fic is set in the 1910's, there will be some racial and anti-gay slurs used in the text of this fic. If this makes you uncomfortable at all, especially slurs against Asian people, please be aware that, while not used very often, they do show up in the text more than once. We'd rather not erase both America and Europe's history of racism and homophobia but we also know that these are slurs that should never be used against another person. If you have more specific questions about the slurs used or our portrayal of them, please feel free to comment and we'll 100% listen and take into account any criticism we receive.

Yuuri has always been a good bluffer. He and Phichit had perfected their skills travelling west across Europe, making money off brief manual labor jobs and card games played in the back of seedy bars. The stakes this time, though, are higher; sitting in the middle of the table are two tickets that Yuuri is convinced are going to change their lives. Not to mention, all of their money.

He’s convinced they’re going to win; his hand is one of the best he’s had in a long while, but nevertheless he can see the flicker of panic in Phichit’s eyes, the sheen of sweat on his skin. “It’s okay,” Yuuri says, laying his hand on Phichit’s arm. “We’ve got this.”

Phichit looks at him. “ _Yuuri,”_ He practically whines. “That’s all our money.”

“Do you trust me?” Yuuri locks his eyes on Phichit’s and hopes that he looks as determined as he feels. They’re going to win this. Phichit nods, and Yuuri sees the shift in his throat as he swallows. “Okay.”

“Are we going to play, or what?” Their opponent grunts, sifting through the cards in his hand as he waits. Smoke curls around them in the bar, drifting from the lit end of their opponent’s cigarette, and Yuuri meets his eyes through the haze.

“Yes,” Yuuri says, dislodging his own nerves from his throat. “Let’s play.”

His opponent grins, a seedy sight that shows all of the gaps in his teeth where they’ve rotted away, or been punched out, or both. He stubs out his cigarette, as if this cumulative moment would require both of his hands, and then lays out his cards, carefully, and sits back proudly. “I got a flush. Hand over your money, fairy.”

Yuuri grits his teeth and then lets his eyes flicker over the set of cards his opponent set down, and back at his own. He feels all the air escapes his lungs, his heart beating rapidly against his chest. He—As if he can’t believe it himself, even though he was almost sure they would win, he lays out his cards and stares at them.

He has to blink a few times to make sure he’s not dreaming as he says; “A full house.”

Next to him, Phichit lets out a noise. “ _Ah.”_ Then, a string of Thai that Yuuri doesn’t understand escapes his lips.

“We won,” Yuuri breathes out and then, with a grin, jumps to his feet. “We _won.”_

Phichit lets out a whoop, picking up the two tickets in his hand. “ _Yuuri,_ you did it—”

Across from them, their opponent bangs his fist against the table, arguing with his friend about the loss of their tickets but Yuuri doesn’t _care_ ; he doesn’t care because they _won_ —they won, and they’re going to _America._ He glances at the clock, the realisation trickling through him that if they don’t _hurry,_ they’re not going to make it to the boat at all.

Haphazardly, he shoves all of the money into his bag and swings it over his shoulder. “Let’s move! We’re going to miss it!”

And then he’s running, faster than he’s ever run in his life. He’s laughing though, tickets clutched tightly in his hand and speeding towards what he knows is going to be the journey of a lifetime, and that at the end of it, they’ll be in _New York._ He doesn’t know if Phichit is following him, but he can hear footsteps in his wake that can only be his and so he calls back with a grin; “I thought you were a fast runner!”

Phichit lets out an exasperated noise. “I’m _trying!_ ”

They round the corner, letting themselves be submersed in the busy, frantic Southampton crowd, and then Yuuri _sees it._ The shadow is grand enough that it reaches them even here, and Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat as he looks up at the ship. Excitement thrums in his veins as he weaves through the crowds, nudging his way through hundreds of people readying themselves for the voyage, or saying goodbye to loved ones. A man’s bag almost collides with Yuuri’s nose but he does not care; he presses on, working his way through the crowd until he reaches the gangway and clambers onto it.

The water beneath them breaks at the edge of the boat and Yuuri feels a small lurch of his stomach that feels like excitement, or nerves, or maybe both. The officer waiting at the doorway puts a hand on the centre of Yuuri’s chest, keeping him just an inch away from the rest of his life. He gives Yuuri a long, scrutinizing look and then shifts his gaze to Phichit, who is drawing panting breaths by his side.

“Have you two been through health inspection?” The officer asks roughly. “A couple of chinks like you could be carrying anything.”

Yuuri grits his teeth and swallows down the feeling that bubbles in his chest. He’s Japanese himself and Phichit is from Thailand, but he knows that doesn’t _matter_ to the man in front of him. He knows it doesn’t matter to anyone; they’ll treat him like dirt either way, whether he’s from Japan, or China, or Thailand, or—he swallows, and then nods. “Yes. We’re clean.”

The officer gives them a long look and then lets out a breath of disbelief before stepping aside and letting them pass. Yuuri looks back at Phichit, a grin on both of their faces, before they step onto the boat that Yuuri knows is going to change his life.

* * *

Victor Nikiforov should be grateful. No, really, he should. When his father had announced that their journey to New York would be on the grandest ship in existence (that’s what they said, anyway), Mila had practically wailed in delight. She had talked and _talked_ about the people they were going to be dining with; about the grandeurs she’d heard rumours about. Victor wanted to be grateful. He really did.

He pulls back the curtain of their car window, looking out at the passing streets of Southampton as they make their way smoothly across the city. There’s a vibration in his chest, the rumble of the car thrumming through his bones and Victor lets out a sigh. It fogs up the glass. The weather is a creamy white mist of early morning, and Victor is just grateful it is not raining.

Beside him, Mila has a silk-gloved hand placed on his knee, the casual affection expected of soon-to-be newlyweds, but the feeling of it sings through his body for the entire journey. He is hyper aware of it, of the curl of her fingers around the edge of his knee, and he _knows_ why. He swallows the feeling away, blinks, and turns his attention to her as she speaks.

“You’re awfully stiff today,” she says, rubbing a soothing hand over his knee and turning to look at him. She’s beautiful; bright blue eyes and curls of red hair that escape her styled bun and frame her pale face. She’s beautiful, and Victor knows it, but he doesn’t— “What is it? Nervous about leaving England behind?”

Victor lets out a breath of laughter. “No, it’s not that.”

His eyes flicker back to the Southampton streets; to the sight of the wind playing a dancing game with the litter. He watches the gentle swirl, the movements of the wind, and thinks of ballet.

“Okay, well, whatever it is…” she sighs; a dreamy sound. “I hope that you feel better by the time we board her; I want to experience this _properly._ ”

He hears it before he sees anything; the noise is almost overwhelming, pressing against the glass as if it is the only thing protecting them from the bustle of people outside. All he can hear is the chatter; the endless string of voices yelling instructions, or a string of goodbyes, or excitement, or— The car horn blares, slowing down to accommodate to this new, pressing presence of people, and beyond that, Victor can hear the low rumble of what can only be the ship. He pulls the curtain back again, glances out, but all he can see is people.

When they step out, he offers his hand to Mila and she takes it, carefully stepping out of the car and onto the battered concrete of Southampton docks. Both of them look up, together, then and Victor lets himself drink it in. The ship is huge, but even despite the little intake of breath from Mila beside him, he does not see anything particularly extraordinary. A ship swathed in luxurious expense is only breathtaking when you haven’t seen much of it in your life and, at twenty two, Victor thinks he’s seen everything life has to offer him.

“I didn’t think she would be much bigger than the other ships,” Yuri says, arriving beside him; the golden presence of his fifteen year old brother. Victor turns to him and watches the smile on his brother’s lips; the excitement in his eyes, and wonders how long it will take before that dies out. “But she’s huge. They are unloading our luggage, so once mother and father arrive, we can board.”

“Alright,” Victor hums, giving the boat one last long look before turning to look out at the docks; at the crowds of people and the watery, early morning sunlight. The breeze ruffles his hair, pushing it out of his face, and he thinks about the prospect of leaving England behind to start a new chapter in America; a new chapter in which Victor is destined to marry Mila, to inherit his father’s business, and to become every inch a perfect, uncomplaining replica of his father, and his grandfather before him. The thought would turn his stomach, months ago, but now Victor doesn’t even have the energy to feel that.

He blinks into the weak sunlight, and thinks that England might be the last place he ever does ballet. He thinks he might have to learn how to accept that, one day.

“Is everything ready?” Father grunts from behind him, stepping out of the car, and Victor turns to look at his father. He looks at the unflattering press of his suit, the lines of his face, the hard glint in his eyes, and wonders if that is how he is going to look one day. Father extends his hand to help his mother out of the car, her long slender fingers a juxtaposition to her hard, cruel face, and Victor does not know which fate is worse; to become his mother, or his father.

Well. No. His mother is a dancer, and so Victor knows which fate he would prefer.

“Everything is in order, father,” Victor hears Yuri say beside him, and wonders why he didn’t say anything himself. He’s the eldest; it’s his job to lead things when father isn’t around.

From inside their parents’ car, there’s a yap, and then a flurry of movement, and Victor finds his hands full of wiry, brown fur. He laughs, the first genuine burst of warmth he’s felt all day, and curls his fingers into Makkachin’s fur. “Are you excited, Makka? Your first real voyage; you were just a tiny baby when we left Russia, I bet you don’t even remember, do you?”

“Of course he doesn’t remember, idiot,” Yuri chides as Victor crouches to hug Makkachin. He can practically hear Yuri rolling his eyes. “He’s a dog.”

Victor stands up straight, looping Makkachin’s leather lead around his hand, letting Mila easily slip her fingers through his on his other hand. He flexes his fingertips, just a little, trying to adjust himself to the feeling of her slender fingers in his hand. For a fleeting moment, he thinks he feels her trying to do the same thing.

He steps onto the gangway behind his mother and father, letting his ears fall deaf to their idle Russian chatter, and looks up at the ship, basking in her shadow. As his feet touch soft, velvet-red carpet, he tries very hard not to feel like the Titanic is his prison ship; dragging him to America, to his perfectly-planned future in chains, kicking and screaming with every last inch of his dying will.

It’s beautiful; of course it is. Victor hadn’t expected anything less. The paint is fresh, the wood polished into a clean, uniform shine. Mila’s fingers slacken in his as she steps forward, breaking away from him to marvel in the expense and he can hear Yuri let out a whistle behind him as he admires the ship. His fingers tighten on Makkachin’s lead as he tugs away from him, overwhelmed and excited by all the new sounds and sights that Victor cannot bring himself to care about.

There’s a set of brown doors ahead of them, panelled with glass, and embellished with gold, and a pair of stewards pull them open in a single sweeping gesture, waiting for the family to filter into the grand foyer before swinging them shut again. Victor tilts his head up, sunlight filtering through the glass dome on the ceiling above them, catching on the intricate glasswork of the chandeliers. Victor blinks at them for a moment, trying to let himself be dazzled by their beauty, and then his father’s hand comes down on his shoulder. Victor starts.

“The rooms are this way,” his father says, and Victor can do little else but nod.

Their rooms are just as grand as the rest of the lavishly decorated ship, just as cold and impersonal and prison-like. Servants deposit their luggage and his father’s ever-present safe into the rooms, and Mila wanders around, going through each room with her mouth slightly agape, tugging on Yuri’s sleeve as he shows her around.

 _That should be my job_ , Victor thinks, standing in the bedroom and staring at the unused sheets of the bed. Her bedroom is adjacent to his, and he has to swallow down an undefinable feeling at the knowledge that it won’t be like this for long. He tries to picture it; her bed pressed into the same corner of the room, the sheets the same fine, silky material. He tries to picture the bed that will one day sleep them both, and finds that the thought turns his stomach.

“Victor,” his father grunts from the door of the suite. Victor’s parents share a suite with Yuri across the hall, more lavish and exquisite than Victor’s own. “Lunch will be served after the ship leaves port. I expect you to escort Mila down.”

“Yes, Father,” Victor says, because there is not much else to say. His father gives him a long, scrutinizing look, as if questioning Victor’s capability to perform even this simple task. Victor does not watch him leave, beckoning Yuri with him; he turns his eyes back to the intricate woodwork of the bedframe and listens to the click of the door shutting.

Victor feels the shudder of the boat beneath him as it leaves the port, and tilts his head to listen to the cries of people outside; shouting their goodbyes to the Southampton streets. His shoes click against freshly polished wood until he joins Mila by the window of their private promenade. Even here, the breeze teases her red curls and Victor watches her.

“Lunch is soon,” he remarks, awkwardly. “We need to get ready.”

Two weeks from today, she’ll be his wife. He blinks at her. She turns to him, her carefully manicured fingernails resting on the ledge of the window, and Victor wonders if it will ever get easier than this. The smile that she gives him feels false. “Okay. I’ll wear that blue dress. You said you liked that, once, didn’t you?”

When she walks away, Victor closes his eyes, exhaling a heavy breath.

It takes twenty minutes before they are ready enough to walk down to lunch, Mila’s fingers resting carefully on the inside of his elbow, both of them settled in an awkward, pressing silence. He’s used to this, though; conversation has never flown easily between the two of them. He lets his eyes drift over the other first class passengers, and finds that all of them are interchangeable; the same pressed suits and beautifully stitched dresses. He finds that he himself is indistinct among the omnipresent society crowd.

He pulls Mila’s chair out for her, because he is expected to, and then sits by her side, with his father to his left. He’s handed a glass of champagne from someone he is supposed to know the name of at the table, and accepts it, feeling the bubbles burst on his tongue.

“I’ll have the lamb—rare, with very little mint sauce,” his father says beside him and Victor presses his lips together, knowing that the next words are inevitable. “Make that three; for Victor and the lady, too.”

Victor hates lamb.

* * *

The room is tiny, and already occupied by two other men who don’t appear to speak English, but Yuuri can’t bring himself to care. The thrill of _being here_ is still thrumming through his veins, and he finds himself swept up in the general excitement as he waves from the deck, shouting goodbyes with Phichit in English.

Phichit takes the top bunk without offering it to Yuuri, but it doesn’t _matter;_ he’d sleep on the floor if it meant he got to travel to America. The surrealism of it all still clouds his mind; this morning he and Phichit had counted together all their money, trying to work out where they would go next, and now here they are, setting sail for _New York._ He wants to drink it all in, wants to experience every last detail that the ship has to offer him in case he never get a chance like this again, and so he drags Phichit with him to explore the corridors and deck.

They pass a steward walking a pack of dogs on the third class deck, and Yuuri nearly trips over a dark brown poodle that’s almost as tall as his hips. The poodle doesn’t seem to care, leaping up to plant its paws on his shoulders and kiss his face while the steward yells something that Yuuri doesn’t let his mind linger on for too long. He’s been in Europe long enough to let the insults slough off his back, if not without a little sting.

Phichit takes out a cigarette and lights it beside him, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he does so. It’s a habit he picked up in London, when he was trying to impress a dancer they met on one of their spontaneous excursions into the underground clubs of London. She, however, had remained unimpressed, and Yuuri had had to listen to hours of Phichit bemoaning his _terrible_ luck. It was the same when he picked up poker to impress a barman who had been thoroughly uninterested, too. Unlike smoking, though, poker was one habit that Phichit had managed to rope Yuuri into.

“Can I bum a smoke?” A voice to their left says, words carefully spoken with just the barest hint of an accent, and Yuuri and Phichit turn together to face the young Chinese boy who had spoken to them.

Phichit doesn’t hesitate in taking out what Yuuri sees is his last cigarette and handing it over. “Sure.” With his cigarette, Phichit also extends his hand and offers a bright smile. “Phichit Chulanont.”

The boy looks almost hesitant when he takes Phichit’s hand and nods. “Guang Hong Ji.” He puts the cigarette between his lips and lights it with his own box of matches. He can’t be any older than seventeen, Yuuri thinks, noting that the kid seems to be on his own.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Yuuri offers out his hand after a moment, and then corrects himself to the Western order. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

He has his notebook tucked firmly under his arm as he, Phichit, and Guang Hong take seats on the nearest bench and he flicks casually through the pages, looking around the deck for something to sketch whilst Phichit and Guang Hong talk beside him. He’s never been particularly good at making conversation, especially not with new people, and Phichit is the only person Yuuri’s ever had an instant and lasting connection with. He vaguely registers that they’re talking about Guang Hong’s difficulty acquiring tickets, and the reactions of his bunkmates when they found out they’d be sharing with somebody _Chinese._

Yuuri exhales a heavy breath, starting out a sketch of two of the boys playing with a battered ball on the deck. The sunlight catches in his eyes and he looks up to adjust his glasses, his sight falling on a couple standing by the railings of the first class deck. The sunlight is behind them, silhouetting their forms and casting a golden glow over the man’s hair, turning the ashy, almost-gray blonde into a halo of gold. Yuuri draws in a breath, and lets his eyes linger.

Phichit seems to notice that the scratch of Yuuri’s pencil has stopped, because he looks over and nudges Yuuri’s side.

“Good luck with that,” he scoffs when he follows Yuuri’s gaze, though not unkindly. Guang Hong’s eyes follow theirs to the couple on the first class deck, and he laughs a little.

“Yeah, right. Don’t you think she’s a little _fancy_ for you, Yuuri?” Guang Hong says, and Yuuri doesn’t break his gaze away from the man on the deck. The woman beside him is beautiful, her already-red hair looking as if it’s caught fire in the slowly setting sun. He can’t stop the pull of his eyes back to the man next to her, though, the cut of his jaw cast in shadow from the swath of hair that’s covering a portion of his face. He turns ever so slightly, and Yuuri thinks for the briefest of seconds that their gazes meet across the infinite amount of lines separating them, and it feels as if all of the air has left his lungs.

The man is _beautiful._

“ _Yuuri,_ ” Phichit nudges him again, and the moment is broken. He looks back at Phichit and Guang Hong; at the amused smirks on their faces, and feels himself flush. When he glances back at the deck, the man is gone, and so is the woman beside him. Phichit casts him a warning glare.

He goes back to his sketch of the two boys, caught up in their game with the small wooden ball, but his thoughts—and his pencil—keep drifting back to the sight of the beautiful man, with his face lit by sunlight. He imagines, briefly and daringly, being granted with the opportunity to draw him, and then casts the thought aside.

The ship slices through the water like a hot knife, carrying Yuuri and Phichit and the strange, beautiful man forward to America. He wonders, briefly, about the new life they’re going to make in the bustle of New York City.

One more week, Yuuri reminds himself. One more week until the future.

* * *

Father orders him the lobster at dinner. Victor doesn’t like lobster either. He orders the same for Mila, and Victor watches her pick her way through dinner with no complaint. He doesn’t complain either, of course, and briefly finds himself wondering when he got so _complacent._

“I performed in Paris, for a little while, but the stage in Russia was always my home,” his mother is recounting one of her old stories across the table from him. She’s a dancer, or she was; a prima ballerina in St. Petersburg where Victor grew up for the first few years of his life. “It was in Paris that I met Yakov—”

She transitions into the story of how she met his father, how he had moved from Russia to Paris too, how they had started the business in England, and how they are opening a new location in New York. Victor’s grip on his fork tightens, the walls of his throat making it harder for him to take a steady, even breath.

That business is what they are travelling to New York for; so that Victor can become the new manager, another piece of his life that had been planned out in careful detail. He thinks of his mother, moving elegantly across the stage, and his stomach twists with envy. He learned ballet as a child, has always loved it as much as she does, but there is a difference between always knowing you were destined with a different fate, and finally being forced to face it.

Across the dining hall, the band plays some slow, graceful song that Victor, for a fleeting moment, imagines dancing to.

His father pulls away from his conversation briefly, something about American politics, and catches Victor’s eye. “Keep up, Vitya. Someday, you’ll be in charge of the endorsements we make.”

“Of course, Father,” Victor replies, tearing his gaze away from the curve of the violinist’s bow.

“And someday after that, you’ll be teaching these things to your own children,” his father says, and something inside of Victor, pulled tight for weeks or years, finally snaps.

He stares at his father, hoping that his expression masks the horror rising in his chest. He can see his whole life stretching before him; an endless string of dinners like this one, listening to his father talk about him like this _thing_ destined to follow in his footsteps, without a care for Victor’s fraying grasp on reality. He pictures himself making sickly small talk to the same interchangeable faces, pictures himself laying beside Mila night after night, and filing paperwork in the daytime. He pictures himself never dancing again, teaching _manners_ to children he never wanted.

It feels as if he’s drowning, as if he’s sinking below the icy depths of the waters beyond the ship, and decides, maybe—maybe that would be _preferable._

At least that would be a _choice._

He doesn’t even bother to excuse himself from the table when he stands, suddenly, his heart hammering against his ribcage. His champagne glass falls, spilling across the expensive fabric, and he thinks he hears Yuri shouting ‘ _Victor, where are you going?’_ as he almost runs out of the dining hall.

As he pushes his way through the finely carved doors, he knocks shoulders with a couple and doesn’t bother apologising. His shoes almost slip on the freshly shined marble as he clambers up the stairs and _out—_ into the cold, crisp ocean air.

He can taste salt on his lips, and he doesn’t know if it’s the sea air, of if he had started crying at some point, and not noticed. It’s then that he starts running, the icy air biting at his skin as he scrambles across the wooden deck and _away;_ away from this life he never planned, away from a future of decisions made for him and—God, Victor does not think he can do this anymore. He can’t, he _can’t._

He collides with railing before he really notices where he is, and all of the wind is knocked out of him. He coughs, and looks up. He’s only a few paces away from the end of the ship; a few paces away from the vast depths of the ocean. He imagines the fall, and wonder if it would feel like flying, just for a few moments.

Victor glances back over his shoulder, at the deck leading back the dining hall, and the sickly twist of his stomach when he thinks about staring into his father’s watery blue eyes answers everything for him. His fingers tremble, half from the cold, half from this terrible, terrifying feeling in his chest and he takes a few steps forward.

The railing at the edge of the ship is cold against his fingers and he grips it tightly, stepping onto the first bar, and then the second. The water beneath him breaks at the edges of the ship, a white-edged rapid current that would sweep him away in seconds. He feels his eyes burn as the wind stings them, and stares at the surface of the water. He thinks, maybe, the fall alone would kill him.

His palms are clammy and slick with sweat as he pushes himself over the edge, nothing but his trembling grip on the bars behind him keeping him from falling. He closes his eyes, feeling the spray of the water on his skin, and his breath trembles out of him as he imagines letting go.

It’s for the best; he would rather drown here, than slowly over years of— of _that,_ where every dinner and every sheet of paperwork would feel like breathing in another icy lungful of water until all he can do is scream, and choke.

He leans all his weight forward, and thinks he’s going to count to five, and then he will let go.

He’ll let go, and it will all be over. He’ll be free, and Mila— Mila will be free too.

“Don’t do it,” a voice says from behind him, and Victor’s eyes snap open.

* * *

Yuuri has never seen a night sky like this; back in Japan, the stars were always obscured by a thin layer of smog; a smoky haze that blocked out the sky. In London, it was the same, and Yuuri had gotten used to the fact that maybe he’d never breathe air clean enough to grant him a true view of the stars. But now, _here—_ the ocean provides a crisp, clear landscape and Yuuri can do little else but marvel at the sight. He lies on one of the benches down on the deck, staring up at the shifting patterns of starlight above him.

It’s beautiful, one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, and he smiles. The stars flicker and shift above him, and Yuuri only looks away when he hears a scuffle of movement beside him, the frantic sound of shoes against wood as someone in a tuxedo runs past him in a blur of movement. Yuuri sits up, pulling his coat tighter around him, and swings his legs off the bench. There’s a man walking to the edge of the ship, and Yuuri thinks he recognises his silver-blonde hair.

His breath catches at the sight of the man pulling himself over the railings, and it’s all Yuuri can do not to start running. He takes a few careful steps closer and tries to imagine reaching a point where _—_ where _this_ feels like the only way out. He’s, God, he’s had moments where _—_ but he’s never _—_

As he gets closer, he can see the tremble of the man’s breath. It’s the man from the first class deck, the man from earlier who had captivated Yuuri’s eyes; the man who had been haloed in gold from the sunlight.

Yuuri stops, a few paces behind the man and tries his best not to startle him when he speaks, his own heart hammering in his chest. “Don’t do it.”

The man’s head snaps around to look at him, and he’s just as beautiful as Yuuri remembers, even with the teary shine to his eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his breath. The wind pulls at the silver strands of his hair and the man’s fingers tremble on the railing. Yuuri imagines, for a brief moment, that he might let go, and he might have to watch as _—_ no. He’s not going to let that happen.

He can see the moment the man takes him in; the flickering moment where he seems to register that Yuuri is Japanese, daring to make conversation with a first class white man, and Yuuri almost laughs. Almost laughs because the man is moments away from ending his life, and still takes a second to consider the _proper_ way of doing things.

“Who are you?” The man bites, but there’s a shake in his voice. “Leave me alone.”

His accent isn’t English, or American, and Yuuri has to blink to mask his surprise. “Don’t do it,” Yuuri says, again, more firmly this time and takes a tentative step forward. He can see the flare in the man’s eyes as he tracks his movements and decides it’s best to stop. “You don’t want to do this.”

The man lets out a bitter laugh, dropping his head and letting the wind tug at his hair. “Don’t I?” He lifts his head to look back at Yuuri. “If you don’t leave, I’m going to _—_ ”

In the faint glow from the stern running lights, the man’s eyes are a stunning shade of blue. Yuuri tries not to panic; he’s never dealt with pressure well, but in this moment there is a man’s life at stake, and Yuuri forces himself to calm. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath of ocean air, and offers out his hand.

“I’ll help you back onto the deck,” Yuuri says, locking eyes with him. “Please.”

The man’s eyes flicker down to his hand, and then back to Yuuri. For the briefest of moments, he looks as if he is considering, before his eyes fall back onto the rapid water beneath him and something cold sets in his eyes. “No. I am going to let go.”

Yuuri’s heart beats an urgent rhythm against his ribcage, his pulse thundering in his ears. He tries to picture what he will do if the man lets go; he’s too far away to grab him and so, _God,_ Yuuri will have to jump in after him. He thinks about all of his own panic attacks, all of the times he’s found himself curled up against a wall and sobbing, dragging in awful, rapid breaths that are too shallow to ease the dizziness in his head.

He thinks of all the shaky, impulsive things he hasn’t had the control to stop in his moments of panic, and thinks _then, why hasn’t he jumped yet?_

“No,” Yuuri says, sounding as convinced as he can manage. “You won’t.”

The man’s eyes flare with something akin to hate, laced with hurt, and then he tilts his head back to the sky, and lets out a breath of laughter. “I’m getting quite tired of people telling me what I will or will not do.”

“Take my hand,” Yuuri says, again, taking a few steps closer and offering his hand again. The man’s brow furrows and he lets the wind shift his hair out of his eyes so that he can better look at Yuuri, and Yuuri thinks he might be trying to make sense of him. “If you really wanted to jump, wouldn’t you have done it by now?”

“Well, I _—_ ” The man blinks, looking back at the ocean. “You’re distracting me. I didn’t come here to make _small talk_.”

Yuuri’s lips quirk into a smile, just briefly. “You can’t expect me to leave _now._ ” He blows out a breath. “If you let go, I will have to jump in after you.”

The man’s eyes widen a little and he opens his mouth to respond, but then shuts it. Yuuri feels glad that he managed to find something that pulled a reaction from the other man. He holds onto it with both hands, and to prove his point further, he shrugs off his jacket. The man watches him.

“You’ll be killed,” he says, and there’s a edge of something new in his voice. Something softer. “The fall alone would kill you; you _can’t_.”

Yuuri lets his eyes flicker up the meet the other man’s, drinking in the edge of softness in his eyes, and decides that the man definitely isn’t _lost_. He’s not going to jump, and so Yuuri pulls off his shoes.

“It’s not the fall I’m worried about,” Yuuri says, swallowing around the flutter of fear in his throat. “It’s the water. _Freezing,_ probably, or at most a couple of degrees over.”

The man turns back to the water, and this time that cold certainty in his eyes is replaced with something else. Yuuri thinks it might be fear.

“I—”

“Have you ever felt water that cold?” Yuuri says, shivering at the thought. He took a trip into Sweden once, with Phichit, at the deepest part of the winter. He remembers losing his footing, and finding himself in the icy currents of a nearby river. The thought brings a shudder through him. He’d almost passed out from it; the pain had whited out his mind. This, he thinks, might be worse.

“I’m from Russia,” the man says, and there’s the slightest hint of amusement in his voice, masked by layers of other emotions, just as one should expect from a man contemplating— _this._ “Of course I have.”

Russia. That’s where the accent is from.

Then, the reality of that seems to dawn on the man as he looks back out at the vast darkness of the ocean, and he sees the shift in his throat as he swallows. Yuuri watches him, the amber glow from the ship deck catching in his silver hair.

“I only fell into water this cold once,” Yuuri says, driving the point home. “The pain was _unbearable._ I don’t want to do that again. So, I’m really hoping you’ll change your mind.”

“You’re crazy,” the man replies, disbelief in his voice. Yuuri smiles, taking a few steps closer.

“So I’ve been told,” he says. “But, and I— sorry, but I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship. Give me your hand.”

The man stares at him for a long stretch of silence, broken only by the sound of the water striking the edge of the boat, and the rumble of the propellers under the surface. He flexes his fingers, offering a smile, and something in this beautiful man’s face changes.

“Okay,” the man lets go of the railing with one hand and slips his fingers through Yuuri’s. There’s the briefest of moments where Yuuri has to let himself register the fact that the man’s hand is in his, and then he tightens his grip, making sure he is the anchor that this man clearly needs.

When he turns so that they are facing one another, Yuuri smiles. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Victor Nikiforov,” the man says, his fingers tightening around Yuuri’s.

“I, uh, I’m going to have to get you to write that one down,” Yuuri smirks, and it pulls a laugh from _Victor’s_ throat. It’s a beautiful sound.

In his fleeting moment of laughter, Victor seems to lose his grip on the railing, almost slipping and falling into the ocean beneath him, but it’s Yuuri’s grip on him that keeps him safe. Nevertheless, the mistake pulls a cry from Victor, a noise of genuine fear that beats panic into Yuuri’s chest. It takes all his strength to pull him back onto the deck, both of them tumbling down onto the wood.

Victor breathes out something in Russian, his chest rising and falling rapidly as a thunder of footsteps come from the stairs a few paces away. Yuuri moves as fast as he can from his position above Victor, with Victor’s back pressed into the slick wood of the deck, but it’s too late. He knows how it looks; a Japanese, third class passenger partially dressed atop first class’ _prettiest_ male ticket holder, and Yuuri swears in Japanese under his breath.

“Stay where you are,” the steward demands, pulling a gun from his belt and pointing it directly at Yuuri. Fear sparks through his spine so fast he almost loses his breath. He holds up his hands, blinking away the dizzy unfocus of his eyes.

“I—” Yuuri stares, wide eyed. “It’s not how it looks.”

“Don’t move, Gook,” the steward’s voice is stern and cold, the slur slipping easily off his tongue and Yuuri closes his eyes. He’s used to it, but it feels worse when there’s a gun pointed at you. He does not imagine he’ll survive this, and wonders if this was the price for saving Victor. One life traded for another. “Get Mr. Nikiforov, and the Master at Arms.”

The wait for the others to arrive is agonizing, and the fear in Yuuri’s chest does not lessen. They wrap a blanket around Victor’s shoulders, and Victor simply stares at him. He wonders if Victor is going to let this happen and decides, he probably is. After all, Victor is just like the rest of them when he is not hanging off the back of a ship; white, first class, too caught up in his own wealth to consider anyone of Yuuri’s color or status as _human._

When the man who Yuuri can only assume is Victor’s father arrives, the rage is written all over his face. He looks nothing like Victor; flat-nosed and watery, blue eyes in comparison to Victor’s sharp features and beautiful shade of blue. The women with red hair from the deck sits beside Victor on the bench, cooing out sympathy and pet names that Yuuri thinks do not sound completely genuine.

Victor’s father takes a few heavy steps towards him, until Yuuri’s back almost collides with the railings. He thinks he might pass out from the fear.

“Who do you think you are?” Mr. Nikiforov spits, and Yuuri can smell the tobacco and brandy on his breath. “Putting your filthy hands on my son.” He turns, to look at the Master at Arms. “Shoot him.”

Yuuri lets out a terrified breath. “No.”

It’s probably the set punishment for the crimes of a third-class Japanese passenger, and Yuuri thinks he might cry. He presses his eyes shut, and waits, his breath being dragged out of him like the awful, shuddering waves of the ocean beneath them.

“No,” Victor’s voice cuts through the haze of fear in his mind, and Yuuri opens his eyes. “Wait, it wasn’t like that. Father, he didn’t— _touch_ me. He saved my life.”

Mr. Nikiforov turns to Victor, and in his determination, the blanket slips from Victor’s shoulders. “What are you talking about, Vitya?”

Victor’s eyes catch Yuuri’s and Yuuri feels a pathetic burst of gratefulness. He wonders if Victor is going to surrender himself to this knife edge by telling the truth, confessing to his whole family that he wanted to take his own life, just to save Yuuri’s. “I was… caught up in thought. I wanted to see the ocean, it’s been years since we left Russia by ship, and I was… leaning over the barrier. I was leaning over and I slipped. I would have died if…. Yuuri had not been there.”

Victor briefly shoots him a dazzling smile, and Yuuri swallows.

No one bothers to ask Yuuri if that is true; no one cares what a man like Yuuri has to say.

“Is that true?” the red-haired woman says, drawing in a breath. “ _He_ saved you, Victor?”

Victor lock eyes with Yuuri. “Yes.”

“I see,” Mr. Nikiforov grunts, and seems almost disappointed that he lost his excuse to throw Yuuri into the firing line. “How are you going to run a business properly if you almost die taking a walk, Vitya? You need to be more careful.”

“Yes, Father,” Victor responds, letting out a breath of relief.

The family sets to depart, and Yuuri takes one last look at Victor before he leaves. Then, the red-haired woman curls her fingers around the curve of Mr. Nikiforov’s elbow.

“Maybe something for the—for him,” she says, and everyone’s eyes land on Yuuri. “He saved Victor’s life.”

Mr. Nikiforov hums, as if the idea of giving money to Yuuri is distasteful for him, even despite what Yuuri imagines is an endless supply of it in his bank account. He turns to his valet. “Alright. Give him twenty, I suppose.”

Victor lets out a laugh, taking a step back. “That is the going rate for saving your son, is it?” Mr. Nikiforov looks almost surprised and then Victor, with a defiant flare in his eyes, turns to look at Yuuri. “How about dinner, tomorrow night? You can come and join us, if you like.”

Yuuri can’t stop the surprise from showing on his face. Dinner? In first class? He almost thinks about denying, on the principle that it’s _wrong_ but there’s something in Victor’s expression that tells him he should not say no. “Okay. Yes.”

Mr. Nikiforov grabs Victor’s arm, roughly, and tugs him a few steps away from Yuuri. “What are you doing?”

“Thanking him for saving my life, Father,” Victor replies, an iciness to his voice. “I’ll see you at dinner, Yuuri.”

Yuuri blinks. “Yeah. See you at dinner, Victor.”

He does not move until the entire party has left the deck and then he turns, bracing himself on the railing, and laughs. The cold air streaks with white from his breath, and he drops his head, letting his laughter shake through him. This is _crazy._

Then again, Yuuri thinks, giddiness tinting the edge of his mind; he is not the one who was hanging off the back of a ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the [fic pinterest;](https://www.pinterest.com/laurxnts/the-ship-of-dreams/) find us on tumblr [here](http://www.achillesandpatroclvs.co.vu) and [here.](http://www.jvstens.co.vu)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few notes!! 1) the Japanese used in this chapter is from Google since neither of us can speak Japanese, so sorry if it's inaccurate! We tried.  
> 2) We saw a bit of talk about the roles being the reverse of what they expected in a titanic au and so we thought we'd address that by saying that we really think this arrangement fits their characters better; Victor having _everything_ in terms of success and riches, and still feeling unmotivated, tired, and bored until Yuuri comes into his life and shows him "Life and Love" felt a lot more close to canon than it being the other way around! Not to mention, this is 1912 and the racial segregation and white elitism of those times would have made it very difficult for Yuuri to be in first class.  
>  We hope you enjoy this chapter!

“First class?” Phichit gapes at him from the top bunk, his legs swinging over the edge. “Yuuri, that’s _crazy._ ”

“I know,” Yuuri laughs, burying his face in his hands. Their bunkmates are out, Yuuri doesn’t know where, and so Phichit and Yuuri have the room to themselves. Not like it gives them much more space, though. “I know, but…”

“You’re going to dinner, tonight, in first class?” Phichit says again, for the thousandth time since he’s told him. He told him everything, because he _always_ tells Phichit everything. Then, his voice shifts and there’s worry in his eyes. “Yuuri, that’s _dangerous.”_

Yuuri almost spins on the spot, just from the surrealism of it all, his tattered and hole-ridden socks shifting across unsanded wooden flooring. He rubs his hands over his face and almost knocks his glasses off. “I know, I should have said no, but… they _offered_ . _He_ offered.”

Phichit stares at him, swinging his legs. “Oh, Yuuri… Tell me you’re not thinking what I think you are!”

Yuuri starts laughing, throwing the nearest object at him. It ends up being a ball of socks. “No! I might be crazy but I don’t have a death wish.”  

Phichit dodges the socks, almost falling off the bunk when he does so. He clings onto the railings and yelps, and Yuuri thinks, ridiculously, of Victor. He sighs, leaning against the wall, watching as Phichit fixes him with his best serious look which, in all honesty, doesn’t look that serious. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Yuuri tries his best to look offended, but they both end up laughing. “I’m going to be fine.”

Phichit jumps down from the top bunk, somehow gracefully managing to land the jump even from that height. “Just be careful. Even if they _invited_ you, the others in first class didn’t. Promise me you’ll be careful, Yuuri.”

His voice is almost a whine, and so Yuuri hugs him. “I promise.”

Phichit seems settled by this because he pulls back, feet shuffling across the wood, and grins. “Now, shall we practice your _manners?_ ” He lifts his chin high, looking ridiculous, and Yuuri can’t help but laugh.

* * *

 

“You invited a third class passenger to _dinner?!”_ Yuri snaps, pacing across Victor’s grand suite. Victor tries to look as casual as he can, leaning on the edge of the polished, dark wood table, and crosses his legs at the ankles. “Victor, are you _crazy?”_

Victor shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe.”

“And is it true he’s—”

“Japanese, yes,” Victor sighs, trying to seem as bored as he can by his brother’s lecture. He thinks it’s ridiculous; he’s being lectured by a fifteen year old. Early morning sunlight filters in through the windows of the suite, casting patterns across the polished wood, and Victor thinks for a moment about how he almost did not see that sunlight. He stretches his fingers out across the table, spreading his palm out in the light, and lets himself feel the warmth on his skin. “He saved my life, Yuri.”

“But—” Yuri pushes a few strands of his blonde hair back, only to have them spill around his face again. He is radiating anger, but that isn’t particularly a strange occurance for his little brother; Yuri spends half of his life angry, and Victor hopes that he will grow out of it. “Father is furious. Are you just deliberately trying to provoke him? Is that what you are doing? It feels like that is _all_ you do, Victor.”

Victor turns so that he is facing the window, letting the sunlight touch his skin and hums, running his finger across his jawline in thought. Yuri is right, the last thing he _should_ want is to provoke their father and yet, the thought of making his father seethe with anger and unable to do anything sparks something in Victor. A little hint of vindictive pleasure that sparks a flame in that darkness in his mind. He smiles, and turns back to Yuri. “Well, I’ve invited him now. I can’t uninvite him.”

Yuri raises an eyebrow, and looks tired. “Yes, you could. You just don’t want to.”

Victor lets his smile widen and Yuri rolls his eyes. “Wow, Yuri. You’re _right._ ”

“God, I hate you,” Yuri mutters, throwing his hands up in defeat. He turns to the door, and then hesitates. Victor stares at the unmoving figure of his brother’s back for a few moments, waiting for him to leave. Lunch is soon, and Yuri is dressed only in a white shirt and suspenders; he needs to get dressed. Yuri turns back to him after a moment. “Just promise me this isn’t going to lead to you doing anything… _stupid_.”

Victor watches him carefully. “Stupid?”

He knows what his brother means, of course he does. He thinks of being nineteen, and coming back to their house in London covered in his own blood. He remembers how Yuri had been twelve and had climbed out of bed at three in the morning to retrieve a cloth and a bowl of hot water. They had sat in silence whilst Yuri had cleaned him up, and they never spoke about it since. He knows that Yuri _knows._ But they never _talk_ about it.

“You know what I mean, Victor,” Yuri says irritably, even despite the semblance of concern that must have motivated him to start the conversation.

Victor sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and then walks over. He puts his hand on Yuri’s shoulder, giving him his _best,_ dazzling smile. “ _Yuri,”_ he sighs. “When have I ever done anything stupid?”

Yuri groans, pulling away. “ _God,_ you are going to _die_.”

* * *

 

Yuuri is sitting with Phichit and Guang Hong on the deck when he sees Phichit’s jaw drop. He turns around so quickly his neck cracks, trying to see what has Phichit stammering and staring wide-eyed, only to come face-to-face with Victor, who’s standing just a foot or so away. He looks ridiculously out of place here, almost as much as Yuuri will look tonight, dressed in a slightly less fancy suit than the last time he saw him, but still very overdressed for the third class deck nonetheless.

Victor’s presence has drawn more than just Phichit and Yuuri’s attention; on the deck around them, many of the other third class passengers have come to a halt and half of them stare at Victor with awe. The other half, Yuuri notes, stare at Victor with something akin to envy. He supposes he can’t blame them; dressed in his expensive suit and with his hair clean and styled, he looks as if he’s _flaunting._

Yuuri stands up. “Victor. Hi.”

“Hello,” Victor says, almost awkwardly, and then looks around the third-class deck at the other passengers. “Do you want to take a walk?”

“Um,” Yuuri glances back at Phichit and Guang Hong. “Yeah. Okay.”

He can feel eyes on him, burning into his skin, as he follows Victor across the deck. He’s used to it though, being _looked at_ , he’s just not so used to it being because he is accompanying a first class man. Victor opens the gate at the top of the stairwell and holds it open for him, a strange gesture that Yuuri does not know how to respond to. He blinks a few times, trying to make sense of the _surrealism_ of all of this, and then steps through and onto the first class deck.

“So,” Victor says, once he has closed the gate behind them both. The sun is only just rising, casting a burnt orange glow across the ripples of the ocean and the planes of the deck. The ship glows with it, the creamy orange light, and Yuuri thinks the white paint of first class shines more in the sunlight. “How are you finding Titanic so far?”

Yuuri nods, tucking his sketchbook under his arm securely as they start their slow pace across the deck. “She’s great.”

Victor hums, looking out at the stretch of the ocean as they walk. Yuuri knows he is making small talk to avoid the true reason he brought Yuuri out on this walk, but he lets him. “How did you end up on Titanic? What motivated you to travel to America?”

“Oh, it was just… luck,” Yuuri says vaguely. “It kind of happened spontaneously.”

Victor gives him a long look and whatever he was considering saying, he doesn’t, opting instead to walk a few steps in silence. “You are not from England, or America.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Neither are you.”

“Russia,” Victor tells him, as if that wasn’t obvious from his accent anyway. And his surname. “We moved to London a long time ago, though.”

Yuuri nods, slipping his free hand into his pocket so that it does not tremble with nerves. He hopes he looks as casual and blase as Victor does, even as his fingertips tremble in his pocket and his heart beats a symphony in his chest. He’s never had a stretch of conversation with anyone this rich as long and amicable as this one. He’s barely said two words, but he’s already sure he’s made an _idiot_ of himself. “I’m from Japan. I grew up in a little village called Hasetsu on the coast.”

“You ended up in England, though,” Victor says, turning to look at him as they walk. The rising sun catches on his skin and Yuuri blinks a few times. The sight is beautiful.

“That’s very observant,” Yuuri says, and then almost chokes on his own breath. Did he just tease a _first class white man?_ God, he’s going to _die._ Victor is going to _kill him._ Victor smirks, and does not seem thrown off at all. Yuuri wonders how much luck the gods are going to hand to him in one week. “I met Phichit—he’s my best friend—when I was working a labor job; I was fourteen. We pooled all our money together, even if it wasn’t much, and that’s how we ended up in England. It was a better choice; my parents didn’t have the money to provide for both me and my sister.”

Victor nods. “I see.”

Yuuri doesn’t think he’s spoken so much to a stranger before in his life. His cheeks burn and he forces himself to look out across the ocean, just so that Victor cannot see him blush. He thinks, Victor is just being _polite,_ and Yuuri is talking as if Victor _cares_. The rays of sunlight touch the surface of the water and Yuuri focuses on them. He blurts; “Wow, the weather is good, isn’t it? Cold, but better than I expected. Though, you’re probably used to the cold. You know. Because… Russia.”

When he looks back, Victor is giving him a strange look. _God._ Yuuri considers the idea of throwing _himself_ off the edge of the ship instead. “Yes. Russia is rather cold.”

“My hometown back in Japan has hot springs,” Yuuri tells him, trying to gloss over the awkwardness. “You’d probably like them, you know, if you are cold a lot.”

Victor, somehow, actually looks interested. “Really? I have never visited one.”

Yuuri lets himself feel a spark of excitement, almost forgetting who he’s talking to, and he grins. “They’re really good; they’re so _relaxing._ The water is so warm, and the—” He cuts himself off, finally remembering that he shouldn’t be _talking_ so much. He snaps his mouth shut. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Victor says, glancing to his left at a passing group of first class passengers who stare at them as they walk. Victor glares them away, and Yuuri feels a strange burst of something half composed of gratitude, half of pure shock. Victor turns back to him. “What were you saying? About your hometown.”

Yuuri stares at him for a few moments, and then lets his feet come to a halt on the wooden deck. He shifts. “We have been making small talk for a while now. I know it’s not why you came to find me.”

Victor grins, then, coming to a stop too. He turns to face him, his silver hair looking as if it’s catching fire in the sun. “Yuuri,” he says, and Yuuri likes the sound of his own name in Victor’s accent. “I wanted us to get to know one another, before dinner. Like, what you want to do when you get to America, what your hometown in Japan was like, if you have a girlfriend, or—”

Yuuri takes a step back, and swallows hard. He _doesn’t_ have a girlfriend, and it is definitely not something he wants to discuss with Victor. He sees a flicker of something that looks almost like fear in Victor’s eyes, as if he’s said too much, and that doesn’t make sense, so Yuuri decides it must be something else. “Victor. Why did you _really_ come to find me?”

Victor sighs, deflating somewhat, and the smile slips from his face. “I wanted to thank you. For last night.”

“I was hardly going to let you… do that,” Yuuri tries a smile, and Victor’s eyes flicker up to meet his, away from where they’d been focused on the ocean beyond.

“I don’t just mean for saving my life,” Victor says. “I mean, for not telling them the truth. You could have told my father I was crazy, if you wanted to, and you wouldn’t have been wrong.”

Yuuri laughs. “I’m not going to tell your father you are crazy during dinner, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Victor looks as if he hadn’t even considered that before now, and he looks almost horrified. “God, I’m not. I promise.”

Victor lets out a sigh, pacing a little until he is leaning on the edge of the ship’s deck, outlined by the rising sun. “I know what you must be thinking. Rich, white boy—I have _everything;_ the whole world handed to me. What can I possibly know about… misery?”

Yuuri blinks at him. He hadn’t been thinking that at all. Sure, Victor’s circumstances had crossed his mind more than once last night when he’d let himself dwell on it, but it hadn’t been _negative._ In fact, Yuuri had wondered what could be so terrible that a man with _everything_ would want to give all that up just to escape.

“That wasn’t what I was thinking,” He takes a few steps closer, so that he is leaning on one of the fittings on the deck, a few paces away from Victor. “I was thinking; what could be so bad that this man didn’t feel like he had any other choice?”

Victor lets out a breath, his gaze fixed on Yuuri. Then, after a moment, he looks away. “It wasn’t just—It was everything.”

“Everything,” Yuuri echoes, as a prompt for Victor to carry on talking. Victor looks out across the deck, exhaling a heavy breath.

“I was _tired_ ,” Victor says, leaning back so that his fingers curl around the edge of the wall. “Every day, it is the same dinner parties, the same formal events, the same chatter about _politics_ and _business,_ and— There is nothing exciting about having your whole future planned out for you. I could see it all, everything my father has planned for me, and I—”

Yuuri stares at him, trying to make sense of these pieces. He doesn’t think he gets it, not really; no one has ever planned his life out for him. He and Phichit do and go where they like, as much as they can within the monetary and societal constraints.

Victor looks at him, letting out a breath of laughter. “I am getting married in two weeks.”

“Your fiance is the girl with the red hair,” Yuuri remarks, and Victor nods.

“Her name is Mila,” Victor tells him, fixing his gaze on a point in the distance. “My father arranged the engagement; to solidify the new chapter of my life as owner of his new business with a _marriage._ We get married the day before the branch opens, and I—”

“Do you love her?” Yuuri says, before he can stop himself, and wants to bite his own tongue off so that he cannot speak again. Victor’s eyes snap back to Yuuri, and there’s a whole array of emotions in his blue eyes that Yuuri can’t make sense of.

“Excuse me?”

Yuuri flushes, not at all handling the irritated heat in Victor’s gaze well. “I— Do you love her?”

“I—what—that is _none_ of your business,” Victor says, and Yuuri recoils slightly at the edge of anger lining his tone. Victor’s face softens moments after, but he doesn’t speak again for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri offers. “But—it’s a simple question. Do you love her or not?” He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. Victor gapes.

“This is absurd. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, and we are _not_ having this conversation _at all_ .” Victor’s accent is stronger when he’s irritated, Yuuri notices, and wonders briefly where his sense of self-preservation has gone. The last thing he needs right now is to anger the man who could have him killed in seconds flat. Victor, however, doesn’t seem to be done with his tirade. “You are— _rude_ and _uncouth_ and I am _leaving now_.”

“I—” Yuuri starts, only to be cut off when Victor thrusts his hand at him almost violently. He doesn’t realize it’s supposed to be a handshake until Victor leans down and _grabs_ his hand from where it’s resting at his side and shakes it, vigorously. All Yuuri can do is nod along in stupefied confusion. If he’s being honest, he’s not entirely sure what’s going on.

“Yuuri—Mr. Katsuki, it’s been a pleasure, I sought you out to thank you and now I have thanked you—”

“And you’ve insulted me,” Yuuri offers helpfully, and immediately wants to strike himself. The blush that covers Victor’s cheeks is immediate and endearing. _Stop that_ , he thinks to himself.

“Well,” Victor says, as haughtily as he can manage through the smile pulling at his lips. “You deserved it.”

He still hasn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand. His fingers burn at the curve of Victor’s wrist.

“I thought you were leaving.” The blush deepens. It contrasts with his eyes beautifully.

“I—I _am_ .” He drops his hand, and then runs it through his windblown hair, pushing it briefly out of his face. “You are so _annoying_.”

Yuuri stares. He has completely lost track of this entire conversation. He wonders if he’s missing some kind of Russian social cue, in which it’s customary to insult your conversational partner before departing.

“Wait—I don’t have to leave. This is _my_ part of the ship; _you_ leave.” From anyone else, Yuuri thinks that it would have an undertone of—something else. Victor, however, seems to have no other malicious intentions aside from being too flustered to control the words that leave his mouth.

“Well, _now_ who’s being rude?” Yuuri says, because if he’s going to get thrown out of first class at least he’s going to make the most of it. Victor gapes, let his eyes flick up and down Yuuri’s body like he can’t believe this conversation is actually happening, even though he had been the one to start it in the first place. His cheeks are still stained bright red.

“What is this stupid thing you’re carrying around?” He asks, and before Yuuri can even frown in confusion, he’s tugging the sketchbook out from underneath Yuuri’s arm. He makes a weak grab for it, but Victor dodges him and sits down on one of the lounge chairs littering the first class deck. Yuuri sighs and pushes up his glasses, taking the seat next to him and ignoring the filthy look he gets from one of the men talking by the rail.

“What are you, an artist?” Victor asks, half-curious and somehow still annoyed, flipping through the first few pages of the sketchbook. Yuuri starts to answer, and is immediately cut off. He wonders if Victor even realizes that he’s doing it. “Well, these are—quite good, actually. _Very_ good.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, wryly. He isn’t sure how they’d gone from Victor kicking Yuuri off of the deck to—whatever this is. “They didn’t think too much of them in Paris.”

“You lived in Paris?” Yuuri nods. “Oh, you do get around, for a—”

He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence, but the slur completes itself in Yuuri’s head. He ducks his head, clenches his teeth, ignores the hot flush of humiliation that spreads itself across his cheeks. He doesn’t want to look up at Victor, but he clears his throat as if he expects Yuuri’s attention. When he looks up again, eyes shifting away from Victor’s face, Victor looks regretful.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Yuuri cuts him off, sharper and more bitterly than he should. His survival instincts really have been flung out into the middle of the Atlantic.

“No, Yuuri, that was—incredibly impolite of me. I shouldn’t have.”

“I said it’s fine,” Yuuri replies, this time a little less harshly. He—normally, he would be enraged. He _is_ angry, but this is how Victor has been raised. Sitting and having a conversation with Yuuri, of all people, must be doing wonders to change his view of the world. He isn’t sure if he appreciates the honor of being Victor’s test-run at basic human decency, though.

There’s a lapse of silence in which Victor flicks through the pages of Yuuri’s sketchbook, fingertips brushing gently over some of the artwork. The action gets smudges of charcoal on Victor’s pale hands, but he does not seem to care. Yuuri feels his cheeks heat up when Victor reaches a section of his sketchbook that’s filled with drawings of the same man, dressed in various outfits and sat in various poses. He remembers meeting him; he was a dancer in Paris who Yuuri had spent day after day with, sketching him over and over again until his pencil was blunt.

“You drew this man a lot,” Victor says, his eyes fixed on the page with a look that Yuuri can’t decipher. “You must have liked him.”

“He was a dancer,” Yuuri says, and Victor lifts his gaze. He reaches over, flicking through a few of the pages to show Victor the sketches of the man dancing, sketches of his ballet shoes and the careful, flexible positioning that only ballet has. Victor stares, and Yuuri doesn’t understand why he is so captivated. His fingertips brush over the curve of one of the ballet shoes.

“Did you have a love affair with him?” Victor asks, suddenly, and Yuuri recoils so hard he almost falls off the deckchair. Yuuri thinks he might throw up; fear trickling down his spine in a awful, sickly cold. He wants to snatch his sketchbook up and _run_ ; staying here is too dangerous, now. He doesn’t know what gave him away; the reverence in his sketching, the fixation he had with the one particular man— He doesn’t know, but he has to _get out._

It wasn’t a love affair, not really, but Yuuri had _wanted—_ and they had— they had _kissed_ and— he almost thinks Victor can see the crimes painted on his lips.

Then, when Victor looks up, there’s a flicker of something like panic in his eyes too. He snaps the sketchbook shut and thrusts it in Yuuri’s direction, getting to his feet. Victor’s cheeks are stained pink, again.

“Wait,” Victor says, holding out a hand as Yuuri starts to turn away, desperate to get _away_. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insinuate—”

He cuts himself off, runs a hand through his hair in evident agitation. Yuuri pauses, sketchbook tucked underneath his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Victor repeats. He sounds—earnest. “Will you stay?”

Yuuri isn’t sure why Victor is asking. He isn’t sure why he says _yes_.

* * *

 

They spend the whole day together, and Victor barely notices. After that first, terrifying slip up— _why did I say that, he’s going to tell everyone at dinner, he’s going to ruin me_ —Victor had found himself lost in conversation with Yuuri Katsuki, travelling around the first class deck dozens of times until the previously-glaring bunch of upper-class elites hardly batted an eyelash at the sight of the two of them.

Victor learns that Yuuri has spent the last four years travelling West across Asia and Europe, learns that he stayed in Russia with his friend Phichit for a week before abandoning any attempts to learn the language, learns that Yuuri is passable in French and near-fluent in English. He learns that making Yuuri laugh tastes like champagne, sparking through his stomach and going immediately to his head.

“Do you ever miss Japan?” Victor finds himself asking, when they’ve finally stopped their slow rotation to lean over the rail, looking down into the rough surface of the water. It must be nearly time for dinner; the sun is reflecting off the faceted surface of the water, throwing its beams into Victor’s eyes and making him squint every time he tries to look Yuuri in the face. _He’s blinding_ , he thinks, and hates himself for it.

“Sometimes,” Yuuri responds, after a long moment of silence, broken only by the sound of the ship slicing through the waves. “I think I’m glad I left, though. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

“Sometimes I miss Russia,” Victor says, looking out across the water. The breeze teases his hair, pushing it away from his face. It smells like everything he’d left behind on that boat to London, all those years ago. “I always remember, whenever I’m on the sea. It reminds me of the summers I’d spend with my family in St. Petersburg, before—”

He trails off, not wanting to reveal too much about himself. His father had moved all of them out of Russia, pursuing his business career elsewhere in Europe, and it was for the same reason that he is being taken to America. When he was younger, he had never imagined he would leave St. Petersburg, and so the presence of the ocean hadn’t been a luxury. Neither had ballet; moving in time with the music across the polished floors of his mother’s studio had felt like a part of his life; nothing he would ever have to give up. Now, the smell of the ocean reminds him of home, and of all the things he was forced to let go of.

“I think, one of the things I really miss is speaking Japanese,” Yuuri says after a moment of silence, and Victor turns to look at him. The iridescent patterns of the setting sun caught on the water reflects on Yuuri’s glasses, adding another layer of colour to his already beautiful dark eyes. Victor hates himself. “Phichit is from Thailand, so he doesn’t speak Japanese. I don’t get to speak it much at all anymore.”

Victor rests his elbows on the railing and hums.

“Do you want to learn some?” Yuuri asks, almost suddenly, and Victor stares. It’s so _improper;_ he shouldn’t, really—if Father knew he was learning _Japanese,_ he would be furious. Everyone would be furious; no one from first class wastes their time on a language like that. He seems to see the flicker of something in Victor’s eyes, because Yuuri laughs. “Come on, I won’t teach you to say anything _bad._ ”

Victor lets himself grin, threading his own fingers together. “Okay. Teach me.”

“Okay, um,” Yuuri clears his throat. “こんにちは. That’s hello.”

It takes Victor a couple of attempts to get even that right, and Yuuri is grinning ridiculously at him.

“If you wanted to tell someone your name, you could say; 私の名前は, and then your name, so. Victor,” Yuuri is speaking slower than he probably usually does, and Victor tries his best to copy. It’s not easy to navigate Japanese, especially not when their conversation is already in Victor’s second language. “Or, you could say 私はアメリカに旅行しています, and that means roughly like; _I’m travelling to America._ ”

Victor tries again to copy, and Yuuri starts laughing. They try it three times before Yuuri abandons trying to teach Victor that particular sentence. Victor protests, though; he does not like giving up on challenges, but Yuuri grins. “I’ll teach you something else, um—”

“No,” Victor protests, cutting him off. “I can do it.”

He tries again, stubbornly reciting the words he thinks he remembers Yuuri saying. He knows he messes up the pronunciation though, because Yuuri is _laughing._ He presses on, half because he does not like not being able to do it, and half because pulling a laugh from Yuuri’s lips is fast becoming his favourite thing to do. He messily blurts out another badly copied string of Japanese, until he hears someone clearing their throat sharply behind him.

Victor snaps his mouth shut, and both of them turn. Stood a few paces away on the sunset lit deck is his mother, accompanied by Celestino Cialdini and several of her high society friends. She catches him in one of her razor sharp gazes; too casual to be a glare, but icy enough that Victor knows she’s _angry._ Beside him, he can see Yuuri taking a few steps back, as if to return to a more _appropriate_ standing point in the conversation. Anywhere that doesn’t involve being inches away from brushing shoulders with a first class Russian passenger. His mother takes a step forward, her lips pressed into a thin, cruel line as her gaze flickers between the two of them.

“Japanese,” she says, a condescending tone to her voice. “How… interesting.”

Victor clears his throat. “Yuuri was just teaching me—”

“I heard,” Mother says, the smile on her lips fake and full of barely masked fury. He knows how _disgraceful_ it seems; laughing and learning Japanese with a third class Asian passenger, and he can see all the embarrassment written in his mother’s eyes that she had witnessed her son behaving like that whilst _with her friends._

“Anyway, Mother,” Victor says, breaking away from the awful eye contact by gesturing a hand in Yuuri’s direction. “This is Yuuri Katsuki. He’s the one who— saved me. He’s joining us for dinner tonight.”

“Yes,” His mother says, flicking her gaze over Yuuri as if he were some sort of insect that she desperately wanted to crush under one of her long fingers. Victor swallows. “Your third-class Japanese friend.”

“I—” Yuuri makes a noise next to him, something akin to embarrassment, and Victor’s skin crawls with discomfort. He thinks it’s remarkable that his mother manages such outstanding, elegant beauty on the stage; almost radiating innocence and purity, when she is so blatantly cruel and cold off the stage.

“He is going to be joining us for dinner tonight,” Victor presses on, trying to counter his mother’s icy gaze with his own. It does not seem to work in quelling her distaste. If anything, it worsens it.

“Charming,” she says, giving Yuuri one last long look. Behind them, the call for dinner sounds and it is alien enough to Yuuri that it makes him jump. Victor feels it beside him, and almost smiles. The trumpet sounds its fanfare, and Victor almost rolls his eyes. Dinner is always announced like some sort of royal occasion, and Victor is getting rather tired of behaving like _royalty._ “We should get ready for dinner. Come, Victor.”

“Yes, Mother,” Victor notes the formal use of his name; she usually calls him Vitya, and so he knows it is yet another sign of her disapproval. He gives Yuuri one last look before following the others towards the inside of the boat. Before he enters the doors, he notices Celestino lingering behind to talk to Yuuri, and hopes it is nothing worse than what his mother had to say.

* * *

 

Yuuri watches Victor leave, following his mother into the first-class corridors and away from the deck. The air is getting cold now; a crisp, icy chill carried by the ocean wind as the sun slips away, blending into night. He can feel it biting at his fingers, and so he shoves them in his pockets. It’s only when Victor is out of sight that he notices he is not alone; the man who had accompanied Victor’s mother on the deck is still with him, giving him a long, slightly amused look.

“Do you have any idea what you are about to do?” The man asks him, and Yuuri blinks. He knows, of course, that he is about to go for dinner with a group of _ridiculously_ rich white people, and knows how much he is going to stand out. His cheeks bloom with colour and he shrugs a shoulder.

“All I know is that I am probably going crazy,” Yuuri says, with a slightly groan. He wonders if the man is here to tell him he’s not _welcome_ at dinner; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been alone with someone spitting venom, and so he takes a careful step back, until he’s resting against the railing.

“My name is Celestino,” the man tells him, and Yuuri nods. “I used to be like you, believe it or not, with every penny I had in my pocket. And I promise you, going into dinner with them is like going into a snake pit, unarmed. What are you going to wear?”

Yuuri looks down at his outfit; at the off-white of his shirt and the suspenders holding up his trousers; the trousers that haven’t been washed in days and are smudged with charcoal. He knows he does not look… _presentable,_ like they do, but he doesn’t have any other choice. “This, I suppose. I don’t have anything else.”

That’s not entirely true; he has another pair of trousers he could change into, but those have a hole in the knee from one of the labor jobs he and Phichit did a few weeks ago. And he could borrow something from Phichit; but everything Phichit wears is white or beige, and far too tight for Yuuri. Phichit is thinner than him, and a little shorter too.

“I was scared you might say that,” Celestino sighs, resting a hand heavily on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri almost flinches. “Come with me.”

Yuuri lets himself be lead silently to Celestino’s suite, and fear bubbles in his chest. He forces it away, stepping into Celestino’s room and looking around. It’s so much grander than third-class, of course, and Yuuri is left alone in the lounge area whilst Celestino searches in the wardrobe in the next room.

On the way to his suite, Celestino had told Yuuri that he used to work labour jobs in Italy before he struck gold and ended up here. New money, he called himself, but Yuuri doesn’t quite know what that means. He tells Yuuri that he has a nephew a similar build to Yuuri, and so he stands awkwardly in the centre of the room and waits.

It takes at least twenty minutes before Yuuri is dressed in Celestino’s tuxedo, and he stares at himself in the full length mirror of the suite. He hardly recognises himself, and he slides off his glasses, setting them aside, trying to test how he looks without them. Of course, without them, his vision of himself is blurry, and so he has no real idea if he looks better without them. He tucks them into his inside pocket anyway.

He’s never worn _expensive_ clothing before; the white of the shirt is _actually_ white, rather than a dirty, almost-grey from years of overuse and charcoal stains, and the black fabric is soft beneath his fingers. He flexes his arms, trying to test the feeling of it, and wonders, briefly, if Victor will appreciate how he looks like this.

He feels a strange burst of confidence that he’s not used to when he slicks back his hair, feeling actually… _attractive._ It’s ridiculous, to feel like this, he knows he _shouldn’t._ For starters; ‘attractive’ isn’t exactly the way anyone would describe someone like Yuuri, and besides—

Besides, it’s _dangerous_ to even fantasise about seducing Victor, and so he pushes the thought aside and stares, again, at this stranger in the mirror.

 _Fuck._ He’s actually _doing this._

* * *

 

“Victor,” Father’s voice comes from the doorway behind him and Victor does not bother to turn to face him. He can already see his reflection in the mirror; he’s dressed in what Victor knows is his best tux, and he wonders if he picked it to prove a point to Yuuri. Victor fastens his tie in the mirror, and turns to face his father.

“Yes.”

“I have something for you,” Father says, and Victor deliberately watches him with a cool gaze, trying to work out exactly what his father is going to give him. He knows that whatever it is, it must have malicious intent behind it. He knows how displeased his father is about last night, about Victor inviting Yuuri to dinner. His father hands over a black box that Victor knows must contain jewellery. “It’s for Mila. I want you to give it to her before the engagement gala. As proof of your… love for her.”

Victor opens the box, the latch clicking as it opens. Inside is a necklace; a beautiful, blue diamond that sets a funny feeling in Victor’s chest. It’s _overwhelming,_ and he can’t imagine handing it over to Mila. He thinks it would be worse than putting a ring on her finger. “Father, this is—”

“It was worn by royalty, Vitya,” his father tells him, crossing the room to lean on the edge of Victor’s desk. Victor lets his fingers brush over the smooth stone, admiring the way it glitters in the overhead, warm lighting. “I wanted to remind you.”

“Remind me what?” Victor asks, looking up at his father. His fingers are still curled around the necklace.

“That we are royalty,” he says. “That we are royalty, and everything you do should reflect that. When you marry Mila and take charge of the New York branch, the Nikiforov name is going to be one of the most famous in America. I want you to remember that, in everything you do.”

Victor looks back down at the diamond, and it feels more like Father has handed him a death sentence than a piece of jewellery. It feels like a physical manifestation of everything that made him want to jump; like a dead weight that would drag him to the bottom of the ocean. The fact that his father is buying gifts for his fiance _for him_ makes him sick, and Victor, irrationally, wants to throw the necklace aside. To do so would be too much of an insult to his father and so he carefully closes the box, clicking the latch shut, and sets it down on his desk.

“Thank you, Father,” Victor says numbly.

“Finish getting ready for dinner, Vitya,” his father grunts as he walks to the door. “I’ll see you down there. Don’t forget to escort Mila.”

“Yes, Father.”

Victor watches his father leave and then lets his eyes flicker back to the black box on his desk. He shakes off the heaviness threatening to settle over his chest, and gathers himself.

Tonight is going to test him, he knows; though he isn't entirely sure in what ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a [pinterest board](https://uk.pinterest.com/laurxnts/the-ship-of-dreams/) for this fic, and you can also follow us both on tumblr and twitter (alex: [tumblr](http://achillesandpatroclvs.co.vu), [twitter](https://twitter.com/llaurentofvere)) and (emma: [tumblr](http://jvstens.co.vu), [twitter](https://twitter.com/casscaixn))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry for the delay! We hope you enjoy this chapter, it was pretty interesting to write!

The rail is cool and slick beneath Yuuri’s fingers; damp from the sea air and icy from the chill. The sky above him is a sheet of darkness, dotted with stars, and Yuuri watches the way his breath streaks the sky. Dinner is in twenty minutes, roughly; he knows, because there is almost a constant stream of first class passengers walking across the deck and towards the dining hall behind him, but Yuuri is in no rush. 

He stands by the railing, his back to them, and wonders if they even bat their eyelashes as they pass. Dressed in his tuxedo with his hair slicked back, he wonders how much he  _ fits in.  _ He should be in the hall by now; should be waiting for Victor and his family, and yet Yuuri can’t bring himself to go inside, even as the cold air bites at his fingertips. He can feel the thunder of his heart in his chest, and thinks he might throw up. Suddenly, for the first time since he boarded, Yuuri feels seasick. 

The waves are a constant back and forth, sloshing against the side of the ship as it slices through the water and Yuuri feels  _ sick.  _ He can’t do this—Even dressed like this, Yuuri doesn’t  _ belong  _ here, and he feels  _ stupid  _ for saying yes. He knows he has difficulty making conversation with strangers at the best of times, often feels like he’s drowning in large groups, and that is when he’s amongst people of his own class or race;  _ this— _ God, this is—

This is the worst decision Yuuri has ever made. 

Yuuri groans, dropping his head into his hands. His fingers are slick from the damp railing and he lets the sharp coolness snap him out of his stupor. He said yes already; he thinks it will look  _ worse  _ if he doesn’t turn up, especially since Celestino went to so much effort to give him the tuxedo. 

Even if he can’t do this, he has to. 

Yuuri takes a deep breath of the icy ocean air, turns, and steps inside the first class corridors. The double doors ahead of him are a shiny mahogany and Yuuri almost falters simply at the sight of the delicately carved wood, the intricate golden engravings. He feels as if his footsteps are out of sync as he walks towards the doors. His vision is a little blurry, and he does not know if it is because of his nerves, or because his glasses are tucked away inside his pocket. Both, probably. 

There’s a moment of hesitation from the two stewards when Yuuri approaches, a moment in which he can see them evaluating him, and he knows exactly what they’re thinking. Nevertheless, Yuuri knows he  _ looks  _ the part, and so, after a moment, they swing the doors open in one smooth movement. 

“Good evening, sir,” they both chorus, and Yuuri swallows. No one has ever—called him that before. He nods back at them, stunned into an overwhelming silence, and steps inside. 

The staircase is grander than Yuuri could have ever imagined; freshly varnished wood and railings like spun gold, lining steps of what Yuuri can only assume is  _ marble.  _ God. His fingertips tremble as he caresses the wood of the banister, taking each shaky step down the staircase as if he’s stepping further and further into a new  _ world.  _ He supposes, in a way, he is. 

He tilts his head upwards, at the glass dome in the ceiling that Yuuri swears he can see the moonlight through. His breath falters, and he almost misses the next step. Each panel of glass is framed with fine lines of gold, and Yuuri can’t believe the  _ extravagance  _ of it all. He stops halfway down the staircase, where the landing is decorated with a beautiful wall clock—every detail is so carefully designed in such a juxtaposition to the ugly and jarring edges of third class; where decoration is sidelined by  _ convenience  _ and  _ practicality.  _

Yuuri swallows, watching how the eyes of the first class passengers linger on him for just a little too long before they move on. Celestino wasn’t exaggerating when he called first class a snake pit, and already Yuuri feels like  _ prey.  _

He takes the last few steps down until he reaches the main lobby of the dining room, and tries to find a corner where he won’t be noticed so much. He leans on one of the smooth, carved wooden pillars and stares at his own shoes, before realising the body language does not radiate  _ first class  _ and so he stands up straight, looking for a template on how to behave. He copies as much of their stances as he can, but it’s hard to watch others when they seem to  _ stare  _ at Yuuri like he does not belong here.

He notices Victor’s parents first, making their way down the staircase and chattering about the Nikiforov business, but they don’t seem to notice him at all, and before Yuuri can unstick his throat to say hello, they have passed him with barely a glance. 

He shifts away from them, taking a deep breath to compose his nerves, and catches sight of a glimmer of silver in the corner of his eye, standing out amongst all of the gold. Yuuri turns.

Standing on the landing, beside the grand clock, is Victor. Yuuri has seen him in his evening wear before—last night—but Yuuri did not focus so much on Victor’s  _ clothes  _ since he was hanging off the back of a ship. Yuuri can’t tell the difference between any of the tuxedos the men are wearing, but nevertheless, Victor looks—he looks  _ beautiful.  _ His hair catches in the light, haloing him with silver, and the tuxedo is a far better fit on Victor’s form than Yuuri’s is on his. 

Yuuri takes in the sight of him: the tailored fit of his trousers; the slight pull of the dark jacket across his chest when he rolls his shoulders back with an ease Yuuri can only hope to emulate; the curve of his neck where it meets the sharp angle of his jaw. Yuuri feels an inescapable urge to tug at the collar of his own starched shirt. 

Victor doesn’t notice him until he begins to make his way down the stairs, moving with a lithe sort of grace that accentuates the curve of his waist under careful tailoring. His feet land with precision; every move is seemingly designed to entrance, to captivate. 

Yuuri can’t help but stare and, strangely, inexplicably, Victor seems to be staring too. There’s a smile tugging at Victor’s lips as he stops at the bottom of the staircase, his eyes fixed only on Yuuri, and Yuuri feels his mouth run dry. 

“Hello, Yuuri,” Victor says, a soft edge to his voice, and Yuuri looks up at him. He feels his cheeks heat up.

Victor is still smiling. 

“You look different without your glasses,” Victor continues, when Yuuri can’t find the ability to form words. 

“I think it might have something to do with the hair, and the tuxedo too,” Yuuri says eventually, and Victor laughs softly, stepping off the staircase and joining Yuuri. They walk together, shoulders brushing with every step they take, and Victor moves effortlessly through the first class crowd. Yuuri finds himself struck, again, by their differences—Victor is from  _ first class;  _ he  _ belongs  _ here. 

“Father,” Victor says, reaching out to touch the shoulder of his father in front of them. Mr. Nikiforov turns, and so does Victor’s mother. “You remember Yuuri Katsuki, right?”

Mr. Nikiforov gives Yuuri a long, sweeping gaze that makes Yuuri want to  _ hide.  _ He feels as if Mr. Nikiforov is evaluating every inch of Yuuri’s worth in his mind and Yuuri feels  _ pathetic.  _ He resists the urge to tug at the edge of his collar, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable in his tuxedo, as if it is awfully ill-fitting and  _ itchy.  _ He wishes he had never put the tuxedo on. 

“I—” Mr. Nikiforov’s lips twitch into a condescending smile, and Yuuri shifts on the spot. “How extraordinary. You could almost pass for a gentleman.”

_ Almost.  _ Yuuri grits his teeth through the sickly wave of anxiety that pools in his stomach, and flexes his fingers by his side. He resists the urge to push his clammy hands into his pockets so that they don’t tremble; he knows putting his hands in his pockets isn’t  _ correct  _ body language here. Yuuri chances a glance at Victor’s profile, and finds that the expression he regards his father with is icy. 

“Where’s Mila?” His father says, after a beat, and Victor’s icy gaze splinters into something else. “Did you not escort her down to dinner?”

Victor clears his throat. “No, Father, I—”

“Oh, good,” Mr. Nikiforov cuts Victor off, and Yuuri can do nothing but watch this spectacle unfold. The conversation is rigid and impersonal; nothing like what Yuuri would expect from a father-son interaction, and Yuuri can’t help but wonder if this is how it  _ always  _ is in first class. “Your brother is here, with  _ Mila.  _ At least someone in this family remembers how to behave like a gentleman. Shall we go and sit?”

Then, Victor’s mother is looping her arm through Mr. Nikiforov’s, and the pair move smoothly through the double doors. Victor’s cheeks are stained pink. Yuuri thinks, perhaps, he is not the only one who had a fraction of his self-worth stripped in that exchange. 

Yuuri turns to look in the direction of the staircase, and sees the boy who must be Victor’s aforementioned brother, since the redhead who Yuuri knows to be Victor’s fiancee has her arm looped through his. Victor’s brother can’t be any older than sixteen, and Yuuri can see the similarities between them; both fair-haired and light-eyed and…  _ beautiful.  _ Yuuri finds his gaze drifting back to Victor, just momentarily. 

Victor’s brother is regaling Mila with what appears to be an animated story, since Mila is laughing behind the press of her fingers. She looks stunning; her delicate, red curls pinned up and contrasting beautifully with the fitted line of her royal blue dress, pulled in to accentuate her slender curves. Logically, Yuuri knows she is wearing a corset underneath her dress, but yet he can’t help but stare, for a moment, at the dip of her waist. 

Yuuri’s eyes flicker back to Victor, only to find that Victor’s eyes pass over Mila with little interest. He frowns, and wonders perhaps if Victor is used to seeing Mila look so stunning. Something in the back of his head reminds him of their conversation on the deck this morning, the flush on Victor’s cheeks when Yuuri had asked  _ do you love her?  _

“Yuri,” Victor says, and Yuuri looks at him. Victor isn’t talking to him. Yuuri blinks. He’s talking to his brother. “This is Yuuri Katsuki; the man who I told you about. Yuuri, this is my brother—Yuri Nikiforov.”

Oh. They have the same name?

Yuri Nikiforov’s eyes pass over him with what Yuuri can only describe as  _ boredom.  _ It is better than the disgusted glares he keeps receiving, Yuuri supposes. Yuuri tries a smile, and hopes Victor’s younger brother is not as icy and cruel as his parents. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Yuri hums, and it’s barely a response at all, before his eyes turn back to Victor. “I’m hungry. Can we go inside now?”

Victor fixes Yuri with a sharp gaze, and Yuri huffs out a breath. He turns to Mila. “Mila, Yuuri Katsuki.” Victor clears his throat, and there’s only the briefest second of hesitation. “Yuuri, this is my fiancee; Mila Babicheva.” 

Mila smiles; the first genuine smile Yuuri has received from anyone aside from Victor since he entered the hall, and offers her hand for Yuuri to shake. “It’s good to meet you.”

Yuuri smiles too, taking her hand in his. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’s doing when he pulls her hand up, and kisses it. He knows there’s probably some  _ rule  _ about someone of Yuuri’s race putting their lips on a girl like Mila, but he’s seen it emulated in movies about aristocracy and, in the moment, it just seems fitting. 

She doesn’t seem to mind though, because her smile widens and there’s something akin to fondness in her eyes. Yuri, beside her, snorts a laugh and for a moment, Yuuri thinks he’s being  _ laughed at.  _ It’s only when he lets his eyes flicker up that he sees Yuri is looking at Victor. 

“What’s the matter, Victor?” Yuri teases, his thick Russian accent somehow making his English sound even harsher. “Jealous that the third-class guest is more charming than you? It’s alright, it was just a kiss on the hand, she’s still  _ your  _ fiancee.”

Yuuri glances at Victor. There’s a flush on his pale cheeks, a startling contrast to his eyes; the same eyes that flicker with something akin to envy. Victor blinks once, then twice, and the look is gone. He wonders if he crossed some sort of line; he didn’t even consider the fact that Mila is Victor’s fiancee. “I thought you wanted to go inside.” Victor says to his brother, a bored tone to his voice. “Why are you still here?”

Yuri snorts a laugh. “I’m so lucky to have such a nice big brother.”

“Yes, and I am so lucky to have such a  _ likable  _ little brother,” Victor counters smoothly, and Yuuri blinks. The interaction between them is  _ warm;  _ friendly—even with the icy edge to their words, Yuuri can tell they are only being  _ playful.  _ It’s exactly what Yuuri had expected from family, and it is nothing like Victor’s interactions with his father. “Shall we go inside?”

“Please.” Yuri says, and Mila slips her arm into Victor’s in one smooth motion. Victor blinks, and then rearranges himself so that he can walk with his fiancee. Awkwardly, Yuuri walks on Victor’s other side. Yuri trails behind them, but he does not seem to mind so much about the lack of company. 

“Thank you for saving my  fiancé ,” Mila shifts her weight so that she can look at Yuuri, even with Victor between them. “Victor and I are very grateful. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Victor looks at Yuuri, and the smile he gives him is warm and genuine, if not a little nervous. Yuuri knows what Victor is thinking about; the fact that what really happened at the stern of the ship is a  _ secret  _ between them. “Yes.” 

When the doors to the dining hall swing open, Yuuri is enveloped by a wave of chatter and fine, lilting music. Yuuri’s eyes seek out the band, and he has an urge to draw the delicate curve of the violinist’s bow. He wishes he’d brought his sketchbook; at least it would give him something to do during dinner. 

The crowd is overwhelming; clusters of finely dressed people finding a table, or introducing themselves to one another, or making small talk, and Yuuri can’t  _ breathe.  _ He does not handle crowds well at all, and even less so when everyone who lays eyes on him  _ stares.  _

“I’m just going to speak to the countess,” Mila says, breaking away from Victor and departing with a gentle smile.

“Yuuri, are you comi —” Victor starts, turning to face him. Yuuri’s vision of Victor is blurred and unfocused; all of Yuuri’s attention on trying to find his breath. “Yuuri, are you okay?”

Yuuri lets out a noise, behind the press of his hand, and finds nothing but concern on Victor’s face. He lays a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri focuses on it as if it is some sort of anchor. “Victor, I think—I think I should go back. This was a terrible idea.”

For the briefest of moments, Victor looks hurt. “Why?”

“You  _ know  _ why,” Yuuri grits out, his breathing jagged and un-rhythmic. “People are staring at me; your parents don’t even want me here.”

Victor’s expression is unreadable. “Yuuri, it will be okay. You’re here as my guest, remember?” Victor’s smile is charming— _ dazzling— _ and for a moment, Yuuri forgets to be scared. “Everyone here is shallow and self-obsessed anyway.”

“Like you?” Yuuri manages, his voice trembling with nerves, but he finds it in himself to smile anyway. 

“Like— _no,_ ” Victor frowns, affronted, but presses on anyway. “No, I meant—Just pretend you are rich, and they will practically forget about anything else.”

“I can’t see that working, Victor,” Yuuri exhales, trying to blink away the haze in his eyes. Victor’s hand hasn’t moved from his shoulder, and Yuuri can feel his own heartbeat slowing down. 

“Trust me,” Victor says, a warmth in his voice. “I’ll be here, too.”

Yuuri nods. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Victor echoes, and then they are walking. Yuuri can hardly believe it, even as he passes through clusters of first class passengers, even as he brushes shoulders with the ship’s  _ captain _ , he can’t believe it’s  _ real.  _ Even more so, he can’t believe he’s doing this. 

They join the group, and before Yuuri can even pick his own seat, Victor’s family—and the rest of their party—arrange themselves into seating which leaves Victor almost all the way across the table from him; his father on one side, and Mila on the other. Yuuri takes the only available seat, thankfully next to Celestino, with Victor’s younger brother, Yuri, on his other side. 

Yuuri rubs his hands on his knees under the table, trying to rid them of the clammy feeling; of the persistent shaking of his fingers. Anyone beside Victor and his family—that is, anyone who does not know the reason behind Yuuri’s presence—seem somewhat appalled when they notice him. 

“Hey,” Celestino mumbles, leaning in and laying a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “If you get nervous, don’t forget—champagne helps.”

Yuuri nods, numbly, and takes two glasses when the waiter comes over. 

Conversation at the table seems to ignite without any of the participants seeming to acknowledge Yuuri’s presence at all, aside from the looks he receives occasionally from members of their party. To his surprise, Yuuri notes that Victor isn’t the bright, captivating presence that he expected him to be at the table. Instead, Victor is quiet; subdued almost, and Yuuri thinks it does not suit him. 

Yuuri is on his third (fourth? He can’t remember) glass of champagne, and the waiter is doing rounds with a tray of caviar, when he is finally spoken to. It’s by someone Yuuri doesn’t know; another first class passenger that has accompanied them for dinner, and it takes Yuuri a moment to realise it’s  _ him  _ he’s addressing. 

“Sir,” the man repeats and Yuuri blinks, looking up from his glass of champagne. “What is it that you do in China? You must be rather successful to get into first class, considering...”

“Japan,” Victor says, and Yuuri thinks it might be the first thing Victor has said in at least ten minutes. 

“Actually,” Victor’s mother interjects, a smile painted onto her lips. “Mr. Katsuki is joining us from the third class today.”

There’s a rumble of chatter around the table, and then they’re  _ looking  _ at him again; like he is something alien, something  _ unclean _ . Yuuri swallows around the lump in his throat and lets the waiter top up his champagne. 

“Third class,” one of the strangers around the table says, barely masked disgust lining his tone. “That’s… something.”

Yuuri feels his cheeks burn and brings the champagne to his lips. He can feel the weight of the collective eyes of the party, all resting on him expectantly as if he’s a caged animal, something that they expect to perform for their pleasure. He doesn’t have to glance sideways to know that Victor’s father is smirking behind his champagne glass. He ducks his head, trying to shrug off the sudden attention. 

“Mr. Katsuki assisted my fiancé last night,” Mila suddenly says, trying to ease some of the tension around the table. “Victor would probably be dead, now, if it weren’t for him. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Victor clears his throat from behind his champagne glass. “Hm? Oh. Yes. That’s right.”

Yuuri glances up, and his eyes meet Victor’s across the table. He can see the mild discomfort settling in Victor’s eyes and, even despite the pounding of his heart and the nerves twisting his gut, Yuuri manages a reassuring smile. Yuuri can still feel eleven pairs of eyes on him.

“It was nothing,” Yuuri says, trying to defer. Victor’s smile is too wide when he responds.

“Of course it wasn’t!” There are a few scattered nods around the table—Mila smiles and grips Victor’s hand above the table. Yuri, on his left, scoffs a little into his own champagne. “You saved my life, Mr. Katsuki.”

“Yes, very fortunate,” Victor’s father says, masking the venom in his words behind a smile. Yuuri drops his gaze to the napkin resting on his lap. “What other  _ skills _ can you boast, Mr. Katsuki, besides manhandling first class passengers?”

Yuuri opens his mouth to respond; to brush off the question without much attention, but before he can, Victor speaks. “Oh, actually, Yuuri is an artist. He showed me some of his work today, it was—it was very good.”

“Really?” Celestino asks, and Yuuri almost sags at the familiar, friendly voice. He catches himself just in time, reminds himself that this is the snake pit.  _ No weakness _ , Phichit’s voice reminds him in his head.  _ I want you to make it out of this alive _ . 

“I—yes,” he stammers. “I studied in Paris, for a while.”

He’s using the term ‘studied’ loosely, but no one here needs to know that. 

“How fascinating.” Victor’s mother’s eyes narrow, and Yuuri feels like he’s about to get ripped apart by a bird of prey. “I performed in Paris for a great many years myself; you must know the city well.”

“Yes,” he replies, and the word tastes stale on his lips. “Not as well as London, though.”

“London?” Victor’s mother says, her lipped pressed into a thin line. She brings her champagne glass up to her lips. “And I assume you’re from… Japan, is that right? How is that you have means to travel? Surely someone of your…  _ situation  _ would have difficulty.”

Yuuri drains the last of his champagne—how many glasses has it been now?—and smoothes his hands over the napkin in his lap. “I—My friend and I work labor jobs, sometimes, and—we make our way from place to place on tramp steamers or… well, train hopping.”

“Oh.” She takes a bite of her food, but her eyes are still fixed on Yuuri. “So where are you living  _ now?” _

Yuuri blinks. “Um. The R.M.S Titanic.”

“And how is it that you managed to acquire your ticket?” Victor’s father speaks this time, and Yuuri wishes they would go back to pretending he isn’t dining with them. “I’ve heard they are trying to stop people of…  _ your  _ kind from entering America.”

Yuuri feels colour hit his cheeks hard, but he forces it down in favour of sipping another glass of champagne that the waiter circling the table fills up for him. He can feel the dizzy, airiness of the bubbles reaching his head by now. “Oh, I won my ticket. In a game of poker; it was just luck, really, and now I’m on my way to  _ America.”  _

“How… rootless,” Victor’s mother says plainly. “Is that sort of a life really appealing to you?”

“Well, I—Yes,” Yuuri stammers, blinking at the group. His vision is blurry, but he thinks he sees Victor nodding at him gently. That—and the champagne too, probably—is enough to quiet some of the nerves fluttering in his stomach. “It’s served me well so far. I’ve got everything I need right here with me—a few blank sheets of paper, the air in my lungs, my best friend at my side. Maybe it’s not the easiest kind of life—I never know what’s going to happen, if I’m going to have a place to sleep at night or enough money for dinner, but it’s not all bad. Just a few days ago I was finishing up a labor job outside London, and now I’m on the grandest ship in the world having champagne with you  _ fine _ people.”

He thinks he sees Victor smiling. Everyone at the table is looking at him now, but he has enough alcohol in his system by now that the weight of their astonished stares is easier to shrug off. Yuuri fixes his eyes on Victor, and lets himself talk.

“I never know what hand I’m going to get dealt,” Yuuri says, his speech slowing. He can hear his pulse drumming in his ears, reminding him exactly who he is speaking to. “But I’ve learned how to cope with that, and I’ve even learned how to enjoy it. Most importantly, this  _ rootless _ life has taught me how important it is to live, and to love. How important it is to make each day count.”

His words hang heavy over the grand table, over the grand heads of everyone seated at it. Yuuri drops his gaze again, from where he’d defiantly raised it to meet Victor’s own, and takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking, fisted in his lap. 

“To making each day count.” Victor’s voice echoes quietly in the hall, nearly drowned out by the chatter of the other tables around them, but the words manage to carry. They’re solemn, but tinged with the hint of a smile. Yuuri looks back up at him, sees Victor raising his glass in a toast. After a moment of hesitation, Celestino and Mila pick up their glasses. The rest of the table follows, albeit reluctantly.

“To making each day count,” they echo, and as the glasses clink together, Yuuri thinks he can see Victor’s face twitch up into the first genuine smile he’s seen since they sat down for dinner.

* * *

 

Victor can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he sees the waiter making his final rounds, clearing away dessert plates and signaling the end of dinner. Of course, dinner doesn’t have a set finishing time; there are trays of dessert circling the hall for people to indulge in for as long as they like, but no one around the table seems to be making any move to eat more. He can sense dinner drawing to a close, and Victor will be glad when it does. 

Dinner was  _ painful;  _ more painful than usual, that is, and the two hours dragged by unpleasantly. There was barely a let up in his parents’ constant interrogation and belittlement of Yuuri, and by the end of dinner, Victor feels  _ exhausted.  _ He can’t even imagine how Yuuri must be feeling. 

Victor has to admit; he’s surprised Yuuri held out this long. At the beginning of the dinner, Yuuri had been too nervous to even enter the hall and now, after two hours of relentless questioning and barely masked prejudice, Yuuri still seems…  _ okay,  _ if not a little tired. 

Victor had always pictured that it would be  _ nice  _ to be out of his father’s spotlight, and yet watching Yuuri squirm under their inspection had been almost as bad, if not worse. 

“Alright, Gentlemen,” his father says, wiping his fingers on the napkin and standing up. Victor can hear his father’s next words before he even speaks them; the same way he ends every dinner. “Anyone care to join me for a brandy in the smoking room?”

The rest of the men around the table murmur some sort of agreement, and then there is a sudden burst of movement: men getting to their feet; women rearranging themselves to sit closer to one another now that their husbands are leaving; the waiter weaving between them to collect glasses and plates. Victor hopes, as he does at the end of every dinner, that he’ll fall under his father’s radar this time.

He doesn’t.

Father lays a hand on his shoulder, and Victor tilts his head up too look at him. “Are you coming, Vitya?”

Victor knows he does not have a choice. “Yes, Father. Let me just say goodnight to Mila and the others.”

It is his _duty_ as future heir to the business to join them in this after-dinner ritual; the conversation is always based around business and politics; finance and law, and Victor knows he has to at least pretend to be interested. He lays a hand on Mila’s arm, the gesture a little awkward, but she turns to him anyway.

“Are you staying here?” He asks, and she smiles at him. 

“Maybe for a little while. I think I’m going to retreat to bed early tonight,” she says softly. “Have a good evening, darling.”

“You too,” he smiles and both of them linger awkwardly in the conversation, unsure of if the moment is over or not. “Well. Goodnight.”

“Yes,” she nods. “Goodnight.”

She turns back to her conversation with Yuri and the countess, and Victor stands up. To his left, he is vaguely aware of his father talking to Yuuri. He barely catches the end of his father’s sentence. “—we’ll be talking about  _ business  _ and  _ politics.  _ Things far above your level, but it was nice of you to come.” 

Victor grits his teeth, and ignores it. He moves over to his mother, pausing beside her to wait for her to finish her conversation, when he feels a hand close around his elbow and pull him to the side. Victor blinks, fully prepared to turn around and snap at whoever  _ pulled  _ him away, only to find himself face-to-face with Yuuri.

“Alright,” Yuuri says, shifting on the spot. “I’m going to go back now.”

There’s a flush on Yuuri’s cheeks that isn’t embarrassment or exertion. He wonders how many glasses of champagne Yuuri drank, and vaguely remembers Yuuri requesting a top up at least five times. Victor glances over his shoulder, at his father lighting up a cigarette as he talks to one of the other party members. 

“Do you have to go?” He asks, lips quirking into a smile. “You could come and join us; forget what my father said.”

“I can’t,” Yuuri laughs, shaking his head. “Victor, I can’t sit through another hour of  _ that. _ ”

Victor nods. “I liked having you here. Sorry about…  _ them. _ ”

Yuuri shrugs and then holds out his hand to shake Victor’s. Victor’s eyes flicker down to Yuuri’s hand and then he slides their palms together; Yuuri’s hand is warm beneath Victor’s, and he cannot help the little jump of his heartbeat in his chest. Yuuri smiles, and the flush on his cheeks looks  _ endearing.  _ Then he feels it; the press of something into his palm, and he thinks it might be paper. Yuuri smiles at him, a playful glint in his slightly-glazed eyes, and Victor’s fingers tighten automatically around Yuuri’s hand.

They stay like that for just a moment longer; Victor feeling the heat of Yuuri’s fingers against the inside of his wrist, and then Yuuri pulls away, leaving the piece of paper in Victor’s hand. Victor watches Yuuri walk away, and swears there’s the slightest, giddy bounce to his walk. Victor glances over his shoulder at his father again, making sure he is preoccupied, and then unfolds the piece of paper in his hand.

Scribbled in what must be Yuuri’s handwriting are the words  _ ‘Meet me by the clock?’  _ Victor stares at the crumpled paper in his hand and then closes his fist, letting his fingers smudge the pencil markings. 

“Vitya!” His father’s voice makes him jump, and he hurriedly shoves the paper into his pocket, turning to face his father. His heart is hammering in his chest and Victor can hear it thrum in his ears. “We’re going now, are you ready?”

Victor swallows. “No, I’ll—meet you in there. I have to finish up in here.”

“Don’t take too long,” His father says gruffly, and Victor nods. “You could learn some very important things from the men on this ship.”

“Yes, Father.”

Victor watches his father and the other men retreat, lighting up cigars already as they go. He watches the trail of smoke as they weave through the dining hall and then, finally, they are out of sight. He lets out a breath; an edge of tension he didn’t know he had melting away at his father’s absence. His mother is talking to the other women at the table, her fingers delicately curved around a flute of champagne and so Victor does not hesitate in slipping away. 

Just before he manages to escape, Yuri catches his wrist from where he is sat down as he passes. Victor turns to look down at his little brother.

“Where are you going?” Yuri asks, his voice hushed so that Mila is not distracted from her conversation with the countess. Victor carefully removes his wrist from out of Yuri’s grip and makes sure he looks cool under Yuri’s scrutinizing gaze.

“The bathroom,” Victor says smoothly. Then he grins brightly. “Don’t stay up too late, little brother.”

Yuri groans, a sickened noise. “Get out of my sight.”

Victor moves his way through the scattered remains of the first class crowd, slipping between various guests without arousing any attention, and then he is out in the lobby. The remnants of the dinner crowd is heavier here; clusters of people painfully dragging out long-winded goodbyes, congratulating each other on simply  _ existing  _ and Victor rolls his eyes as he passes a group of men and overhears fragments of their conversation. 

He can’t possibly imagine what Yuuri wants, or what he has planned, but something in Victor  _ trusts him  _ and a flicker of excitement sets his heart alight for the first time in a very long while. Victor smoothes a hand over his tie, straightening his jacket, and walks to the staircase. He almost, half-expects Yuuri not to be there, but he is. He’s leaning casually on the edge of the bannister by the clock, and when his eyes fall on Victor, there’s a glimmer of shock in his expression—as if he had not quite expected Victor to come, either. 

Victor doesn’t break eye contact with Yuuri as he makes his way up the stairs. Yuuri has put his glasses back on and, for some reason, they seem to accentuate the flush of his cheeks. 

“Hello,” Victor says, and he can feel the edges of his lips tugging up into a smile. Yuuri smiles.

“Do you want to go to a  _ real  _ party now?” Yuuri suggests, taking a few steps backwards as if he is already about to make his way there. Victor blinks.

“What?  _ Where? _ ”

Yuuri starts walking and Victor can do little else but follow him. For a moment, he dwells on this new, bold Yuuri that he hasn’t encountered before—but then he reminds himself that he has not known Yuuri very long at all, and perhaps he is  _ always  _ like this. 

“How much champagne have you had to drink?” Victor asks, casting a few glances around to make sure he is not being watched as he follows Yuuri out of the hall. 

“I lost count somewhere in the middle of dinner,” Yuuri laughs, slipping through the main doors as the stewards open them for the pair. Victor doesn’t miss the look they give Yuuri, and then Victor for accompanying him. “But I know it was  _ a lot. _ ”

Yuuri is still laughing a little when he reaches the elevator doors and Victor can’t help but stare when Yuuri steps inside. He knows by now his father will be wondering about his absence and thinks, perhaps, he should go back. But then Yuuri leans on the wall of the elevator and pushes his hair back with a grin, and Victor can’t help but follow him inside.

“Where are we going?” Victor says when the steward slides the elevator doors shut.

“F deck,” Yuuri says to the steward, but it answers Victor’s question too.  _ Third class. _

The elevator ride is—not awkward, exactly. Victor can  _ feel _ Yuuri shifting restlessly next to him, even without looking. It’s mercifully brief; the steward lets them out without a word and Yuuri takes the lead, reaching out slightly before seeming to think better of it and beckoning Victor forward. He smiles, and Victor feels something in his chest start to flutter.

The party is in full swing by the time Yuuri leads Victor to the overcrowded hall. It’s nothing like first class; the soft, mellow thrum of the band is traded for the lively, upbeat folk tunes and improvised melodies of the musicians, so  _ different _ from the controlled, smooth notes of the quartet upstairs. There’s no expensive decor or intricate designs here; instead, the furniture is made of unvarnished and roughly carved wood. The black and white tuxedos and delicately woven dresses are replaced by loose shirts and slacks, suspenders and heavy boots, tartan dresses and skirts.

None of these really strike Victor as the biggest difference, though. The party is  _ alive  _ in a way Victor has never seen before; clusters of people are dancing and laughing—not the careful, intricate steps of ballroom dancing or ballet, but improvised, lively movements that are filled with  _ laughter. _ Victor sees men playing card games at one of the tables, smoking and laughing and clapping to the music, and sees a woman twirling another woman around to the music as it plays, so loud that Victor can feel the wooden flooring beneath him tremble. 

Yuuri is by his side, their shoulders pressed together in the cramped space of the ever moving crowd, and Victor is frozen, staring at the scene in front of him. The hall smells like alcohol and  _ people  _ but Victor doesn’t care, because all he can see is the  _ energy.  _

“Let’s go and find my friend Phichit,” Yuuri says to him, and Victor turns, barely able to hear him over the music.

“What?”

“My friend P—Oh, he’s there!” Yuuri grabs his arm and Victor is too overwhelmed to think about it as he’s dragged towards a man in the crowd. The man is Asian too—Thai, perhaps, judging from the darker shade of his skin—and he is dancing with a girl. “Phichit, hi!” 

Phichit stops dancing, grinning at Yuuri. “How was your dinner in first class? I’m so glad you’re al—” Phichit’s eyes fall on Victor. “ _ Hi. _ ”

“I thought I’d show him what it’s like down here,” Yuuri says, with a grin. “This is Victor. Victor, this is Phichit. He’s my best friend.”

Victor does not miss the look on Phichit’s face, and has to suppress a laugh when Phichit turns to Yuuri and says; “How much have you  _ drank,  _ Yuuri?”

“What?” Yuuri blinks. “Who says I’ve been drinking?” 

Victor shifts, uncomfortably out of place in the third-class crowd, and finds a spare seat a few paces away from Yuuri and Phichit’s conversation. The hall is  _ warm;  _ the clammy heat of overcrowded spaces that Victor has never experienced before, and so Victor unfastens his tie, leaves it hanging around his neck, and simply watches this  _ spectacle  _ of a party. Yuuri sets a pint glass of something Victor assumes to be beer down in front of him and then Phichit is pulling Yuuri away, into the crowd. He takes a sip of it and finds it isn’t as distasteful as he expected it to be; even if the taste is a lot less delicate than champagne and wine. 

He sees Yuuri in the crowd and watches him as he talks animatedly to Phichit and another Chinese boy that Victor vaguely recognises from when he went to collect Yuuri on the deck this morning. He watches Yuuri drink  _ two  _ pints of beer, on top of all the champagne he’s already consumed, before Yuuri is weaving through the crowd and  _ dancing. _

Victor lets himself just watch; Yuuri’s movements are sloppier than a lot of dancers he’s seen (and Victor has seen a lot of dancers—he  _ is  _ a dancer) but it doesn’t seem to  _ matter.  _ There’s some skill to Yuuri’s movements and Victor can’t help but wonder if Yuuri had learnt once; in Paris, or London. Phichit is laughing and dancing too, but Victor’s eyes are fixed on Yuuri. He is flushed from the alcohol, but beautiful and captivating nonetheless, and Victor hates himself. He hates himself for—for  _ looking.  _

He seems so far away from the boy with fear in his eyes in the doorway of the dining hall; so far away from the boy who played with the hem of his napkin as Victor’s parents questioned him, and Victor drinks up every last detail of this Yuuri; this Yuuri who dances in the centre of the crowd, dragging eyes to him without even noticing the effect he is having; this Yuuri who is so caught up in the music that he reminds Victor of himself, practicing ballet in his mother’s studio to the music in his head.

Halfway through the third song, Yuuri’s eyes open, his attention being dragged to where Victor is sitting, dizzy and lightheaded with laughter. A few steps away from Yuuri on the dancefloor, a man stumbles and falls, crashing into one of the tables, and Victor wants to be alarmed; disgusted; but he’s  _ not.  _ When the man clambers to his feet and reaches for more alcohol, Victor  _ laughs.  _ Yuuri is weaving through the crowds, back to where Victor is sat with his legs crossed. 

Yuuri has stripped out of his jacket, tie, and waistcoat so that he is just in the white shirt and suspenders; the top few buttons of his shirt are unfastened and, partnered with the flush of his cheeks and the ruffle of his hair, he looks… Victor doesn’t quite have a word for it, but he knows that he  _ likes  _ how Yuuri looks when he is warmed by alcohol in his stomach. 

A few paces away, the musician changes song to a fast paced folk song that Victor doesn’t know, but he taps his fingertips on his knees anyway. Then, Yuuri is in front of him, and his hand is extended. 

“Do you want to dance?” Yuuri says, his voice raised over the sound of the music. Victor stares.

“What?”

Yuuri grabs Victor’s hand from his lap and tugs him to his feet. Victor feels a strange swooping sensation in his stomach as their hands slide together and he thinks about how  _ dangerous  _ it is—they are two  _ men  _ and it is  _ wrong  _ for them to be dancing together. Even more so because Victor does not know how well he will be able to hide the truth when there is a beautiful Japanese boy pulling him onto the dancefloor. If he were to get  _ caught— _ if anyone down here were to find out about him—Victor can almost hear the slurs being spat at him, can almost see the flecks of blood on the wooden flooring. 

But suddenly, when Yuuri drags him into the middle of the crowd, Victor can’t find it in himself to care.

“Wait, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Victor laughs, but Yuuri is already moving in time with the music. “I don’t even know this song.”

“Neither do I,” Yuuri grins, leaning in so that Victor can hear him above the noise. He can feel Yuuri’s breath on his cheek; can smell the champagne on his breath. His heart stutters in his chest. “You just make it up. Can you dance?”

Victor pulls back to look at him, and lets himself accept that this is  _ going to happen.  _ He grins. “I  _ am  _ a dancer.”

Either Yuuri does not hear him, or he does not take time to process Victor’s words, because he simply nods, and then he is  _ dancing.  _ Someone in the crowd barges into Victor from behind, knocking him a few steps forward so that he is in Yuuri’s space, but Yuuri does not seem deterred at all. Victor thinks he might  _ die.  _ With his body inches from Yuuri’s, Victor lets himself listen to the music and  _ dance.  _

It’s been a long time since Victor has danced, and Victor has never danced like this; never to music like this. Dancing to Victor was always the careful bends and turns of ballet to the gentle lilt of orchestral music but  _ this— _ this is a new type of dancing; of just moving with the music, unthinkingly and  _ fun  _ and Victor has never—

It’s only when Yuuri grins at him as they dance, a dazzling smile, that Victor remembers he should not be dancing with another man. He wonders if they are already being watched, and glances around to see that no one  _ cares.  _ No one has batted an eyelid their way, all too caught up in their own private moments, and it’s when he’s looking away that Yuuri’s hand ends up on his waist. 

“Come on,” Yuuri purrs, and Victor can feel the heat of his fingers through layers of clothing. “You’re not dancing.”

Victor turns, managing a laugh even though his heart is pounding, and Yuuri drags him a few steps closer as the beat picks up. Victor’s brain short circuits and he has to find it in himself to make his feet move as Yuuri pulls him through the crowds, dancing to the music. The space between their bodies is so minimal that Victor can feel the heat, can feel the tickle of Yuuri’s breath on his cheek as they move together, and Victor wants so badly to be scared, to feel as if this is  _ wrong,  _ but he doesn’t—he just  _ laughs.  _

He thinks of his father, floors and floors away, sitting in the subdued smoking room, listening to the quiet chatter about politics. He thinks of the taste of brandy on his tongue and the sound of violin strings in his ears and then he’s laughing harder, letting his ears soak in the sounds of music, of feet thundering against wooden flooring as they dance, of chatter and laughter and— _ life.  _

All Victor can think about is how  _ alive  _ he feels. 

A few paces away, Phichit spins the girl he’s dancing with under his arm, twirling her around in one smooth gesture and catching her in his arms.When Victor looks back at Yuuri, there’s a grin on his face; a terrible, mischievous look, and Victor laughs. “No.”

Yuuri raises his arm, twirling Victor around anyway. It’s slightly awkward, due to the height difference between them, but Victor lets out a yelp of protest, only half-hearted, and lets himself be swept away. He ends up in Yuuri’s arms, the line of their bodies pressed together, and Victor drops his head and laughs. 

“Yuuri, this is  _ crazy _ ,” Victor laughs, and Yuuri’s fingers are pressed into the base of Victor’s spine. Victor finds himself hyper aware of them. He looks down at Yuuri; a few inches between their faces, and lets himself appreciate, again, the flush of his cheeks and the shine in his eyes. He knows the only thing motivating Yuuri is the alcohol thrumming in his veins but he lets himself have it, nonetheless. Victor does not think he’ll ever get a chance like this again.

“I know,” Yuuri grins, dragging him back into the song. 

They dance for three songs, and by the last one, Victor is almost used to the press of Yuuri’s body against his own. Almost. 

The room is terribly warm and Victor is breathless; his chest rising and falling against Yuuri’s own. Yuuri’s skin is slick, ever so slightly, with sweat and it makes him  _ glow.  _ Victor hates how this party is lowering his inhibitions; hates how he finds his gaze lingering; how his eyes drop to Yuuri’s lips when he licks them.

“I’m thirsty,” Yuuri whines, dropping his hand to find Victor’s. It’s an unthinking gesture when Yuuri’s fingers slide between Victor’s, but the shock of fear that runs down Victor’s spine is almost tangible. They shouldn’t be touching  _ at all.  _ Before he can protest, or snatch his hand out of Yuuri’s grasp, Yuuri is dragging them across the room to one of the tables where a pair of men are arm wrestling. 

Brilliant, Victor thinks. Let’s go up to two men trying to assert their dominance whilst holding hands. Brilliant. Yes.

He thinks Yuuri Katsuki might be the stupidest person he’s ever met, and yet, he hasn’t pulled his own hand away. Maybe  _ he’s  _ even stupider. 

Victor drops his hand as soon as they come to a halt. He watches Yuuri snatch two pint glasses off the table and push one of them into Victor’s hand, grinning.

“You’re drinking too much,” Victor says, leaning in a little so that Yuuri can hear him. Yuuri grins. 

“You’re still acting all… first class,” Yuuri laughs, taking a sip of the drink. “Relax.”

Victor takes a sip of the beer and finds that he’s  _ thirsty.  _ His throat is dry from the stretch of time he spent dancing and  _ staring  _ at Yuuri. The burn of the alcohol is welcome; Victor downs at least half of the pint in one movement, and finds that Yuuri is the one staring this time. “What?” Victor laughs. “I’m Russian; you think I don’t know how to drink?”

Yuuri laughs. “You keep surprising me.”

Victor gives him a bright grin. “ _ Yuuri, _ ” he laughs. “I could say the same thing about you.”

“Come on, let’s dance again,” Yuuri says, his hand finding Victor’s and dragging him back into the crowd. Before Victor lets himself be pulled away, he finds himself dizzy on his own daring and too much beer, snatching the cigarette out of one of the arm-wrestling men’s mouth. He doesn’t get a chance to see the man’s reaction because then he is in the crowd, the cigarette between his own lips. Yuuri turns to him. “You smoke?”

Victor laughs, and takes a long drag of the cigarette. It makes him cough; like fire in his lungs, but Victor just laughs more. “No. I’ve never smoked before in my  _ life. _ ”

Yuuri pulls the cigarette out of Victor’s lips, a deliberate movement, and doesn’t seem to break eye contact with Victor as he takes his own drag. “Neither do I.”

Victor swallows. He can hear the rabbit-fast beat of his own heart as his eyes lock with Yuuri’s across the haze of smoke between them. Yuuri throws the cigarette aside, and Victor doesn’t even spare a thought for where it lands, because Yuuri’s hands are on him again. This is  _ ridiculous;  _ if anyone bothered to glance their way, both of them would be dead in a heartbeat. 

When the smoke clears a little, Yuuri is grinning and Victor thinks, explicitly and suddenly, about kissing him. 

The fear that runs through him at that intrusive thought is like lightning, and Victor has to pull himself away harshly. His heart is hammering in his chest, leaving him dizzy, and Yuuri blinks at him. “What is it?”

Victor’s fingers are clammy on the glass and he downs the rest of it, setting the empty glass down on a nearby table. “Nothing. Let’s dance.” 

He makes sure Yuuri isn’t so close this time around. He hates himself every time this happens; every awful, sudden reminder that he’s—He cuts off his own thoughts. He thinks about Yuuri’s hands on his waist, on the base of his spine, in his own hand, and wonders—maybe—what if  _ Yuuri  _ is—but he’s read signals wrong before now, and ended up covered in blood. 

“Did you say you were a dancer?” Yuuri asks, above the sound of the music, moving in a little closer to talk. Victor wishes he’d jumped.

“Yes,” Victor says, leaning in a little. Yuuri’s eyes light up, and every thought Victor had is washed away, replaced by  _ this.  _ He grins when Yuuri does. “I’m a ballet dancer. Or, I was—I want to be.”

There’s something mischievous in Yuuri’s eyes. “Do you want to have a dance-off?”

“A—A what?” Victor laughs, taking a stumbling step backwards. He thinks Yuuri Katsuki might be the death of him; both Yuuris, actually, the Yuuri who avoids eye contact and flushes nervously when he talks and  _ this  _ Yuuri, who unthinkingly touches Victor, who drags him into dances and—Yes, Victor hates both of them.

“A dance off,” Yuuri repeats, the grin spreading on his lips. “You, me, and Phichit. We both used to be really good friends with a dancer in Paris; we could take you on.”

“No!”

“Alright, then me and Phichit can have a dance off,” Yuuri laughs, weaving messily through the crowds to find Phichit, dragging him towards the stage. It must be a common occurrence for them, because Phichit doesn’t even seem caught off-guard. Victor watches this spectacle unfold on the stage, his ribs and abdomen aching with laughter by the end of it as they dance across the stage, the crowds at the edges clapping in time with the movements. The girl who Phichit was dancing with cheers out his name and, dizzy with daring, Victor yells out Yuuri’s name. 

A woman to his left accidentally pours her drink on him as she dances, and Victor doesn’t  _ care.  _ He can smell alcohol and sweat and—so many things clinging to his skin and his clothes; his hair falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t  _ care.  _ He’s never felt so alive before, and when Phichit and Yuuri finally climb off the stage, Victor is sore from laughter.

“How did I do?” Yuuri asks, breathlessly, and Victor grins. 

“Yuuri, you were  _ amazing, _ ” Victor laughs. “You  _ can  _ dance.”

“Let’s go and get some more drinks,” Yuuri says, making his way through the crowd. Victor watches as Phichit tilts the girl’s head and kisses her, and swallows. He wonders if Yuuri thought about kissing  _ him  _ when he came off the stage, but brushes it away. Yuuri’s not—he’s not  _ like that. _

“Victor, are you coming?” Yuuri’s voice says harshly from a few paces away. Then, there’s a hand on his tie, dragging him a few, stumbling steps forward. The noise that escapes Victor’s lips is half shock, half something he does not want to think about. He feels a trickle of heat run down his spine; bursting in the pit of his gut, and he has to blink a few times to clear the unexpected thrum of arousal.

He thinks he’s drank too much himself, and he needs to go back  _ now.  _

Yuuri grabs too more glasses, pushing one into Victor’s hand, and leans against the nearest wall, at the very edge of the hall. The party is just as lively as it was when they joined, and Victor leans beside Yuuri on the wall, looking out at the rest of the room. He lets himself  _ think  _ about it for the first time since they arrived, and finds that it is such a strange notion.

He’s never had fun like this before in his  _ life.  _ He’s never felt so— _ alive _ ; the lightheaded feeling and giddiness of his heart that Victor had never expected to—He thinks of the dullness of every formal dinner he’s ever attended, and wonders how he is ever going to go back, when he has seen how much  _ life  _ can be breathed into a party like this. It’s bizarre, really, that these people don’t have anything to their names; people of limited money and other races and  _ yet— _ yet there is something so—he wonders how they can be so happy, so  _ alive,  _ when they don’t have anything.

He wonders, in comparison, how he spent years being bored and tired, when he had  _ everything.  _

He lets his eyes flicker to Yuuri beside him, to the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the slick sheen of his skin. Yuuri’s cheeks are still flushed, his hair falling messily into his face, his glasses slipping down his nose. He looks—He looks  _ debauched,  _ and Victor wants to kiss him. God, he wants to kiss him.

He takes a long drink of his pint glass, and tries to quell the feeling in his gut. It’s too dangerous to even think about; he does not know if Yuuri is…  _ like that,  _ and he should not risk it, especially not with someone from third-class, someone—it would ruin everything, and Victor briefly thinks about his father.

“So, you want to be a ballet dancer?” Yuuri asks, drinking from his own glass. Victor nods.

“My mother was a prima ballerina in Russia and I always wanted to… do what she did,” Victor says, glad for the distraction so that he does not think about Yuuri’s lips. “But I have to do what my father does instead. It is fine; I’ve always known this is how it was going to be.”

Yuuri’s eyes are fixed on him. “You’re so… full of surprises.” He laughs, and Victor frowns a little.

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri shrugs, licking the beer from his lips. “When I first met you, you were hanging off the back of a ship, Victor. Then, I find out you can  _ drink,  _ and you can  _ dance— _ and you want to be a dancer, and—”

Yuuri cuts himself off, and Victor thinks he can see Yuuri’s flush darken.

“What about you?” Victor asks, changing the direction of the conversation. “You said you learned to dance in Paris?”

“Yes,” Yuuri laughs, as if he’s remembering something. “God, yes. We were friends with a dancer and he taught us a lot. But… Phichit met this woman once; she was a burlesque dancer. Then  _ she  _ taught us some things too.”

Victor blinks. “You—You can burlesque dance.”

“Well, no,” Yuuri snorts, clearly embarrassed. He downs half of his drink. “Not—She just taught me a few things! I’m not going to show you.”

“But  _ Yuuri, _ ” Victor whines, a grin spreading on his face. “You can’t say that and then not  _ show me. _ ”

“I’m not going to burlesque dance in a public space,” Yuuri protests. “I’m not drunk enough for  _ that. _ ”

“You learned to draw in Paris too, you said,” Victor says, after a long stretch of laughter from the pair of them. 

“I did most of my drawing in Paris,” Yuuri tells him, leaning a little closer as the music picks up. Victor feels a little dizzy. “But I’ve always been able to draw; I’ve always loved drawing.”

“You have a gift,” Victor lets his voice drop a little, and Yuuri is giving him an unreadable look. “When I looked at your drawings, I—You have a gift. You see people.”

Yuuri’s attention seems elsewhere as he stares at Victor, and Victor feels his own breath hitch. The proximity of Yuuri is overwhelming; heady, and Victor thinks he could  _ drown.  _ “I see you.”

Victor swallows. “And?”

Yuuri pauses, a long stretch of silence between them that is broken by the chatter and laughter of the groups; by the music of the band. He wonders what Yuuri is thinking and then, after a long moment, Yuuri simply says; “You wouldn’t have jumped.”

Victor’s breath shakes out of him. He opens his mouth to respond but, before he can, a line of people in some sort of dance pass them and Phichit’s dancing partner is offering her hand out. Yuuri grins, slipping his hand through hers, and offering his own to Victor. 

Victor takes his hand and lets himself be dragged, once again, into the dancing crowd. He laughs, the giddy feeling bubbling through him again, and all of Victor’s thoughts melt away as he lets himself  _ feel this. _

Out of the corner of his eye, Victor thinks he sees his father’s valet on the steps but he passes in a blur of movement, and Victor is swept away by laughter and Yuuri’s hand before he can really process what he saw.

* * *

 

“That was—That was the worst thing I’ve ever done,” Victor says, breathless with laughter and exertion as he and Yuuri stumble through the corridors of the third class decks. It must be the early hours of the morning by now; Victor thinks he can see the licks of sunlight on the very edge of the ocean through the round, ship windows. His head is cloudy from a night of laughter and dancing, and  _ alcohol  _ and it takes every semblance of his brainpower to remind himself that he needs to go back to first class.

Yuuri is laughing beside him, stumbling down the corridor. “You had fun, though. Right?” 

Victor laughs, collapsing against one of the whitewashed walls, feeling the coolness of the metal against his burning fingertips. His body is thrumming with excitement and alcohol and—Victor can’t deny it—arousal. His mind keeps flickering back to the images of Yuuri dancing, of Yuuri pressing close to him, and Victor wonders when he ended up so  _ lost.  _

“Yes,” Victor exhales, closing his eyes and letting his head thump against the wall. “I shouldn’t have—I should have stayed. My father’s valet was there; did you see him?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri breathes. “But he left us alone, so does it matter?”

Victor does not want to think about his father and what he will say in the morning, so Victor simply thinks about the beat of the music that he can still hear drifting from down the corridor, and laughs. The party is still going strong, and Victor can’t imagine managing to dance any longer than they already did. 

“I should go back,” Victor says, pushing himself off the wall. He overestimates the width of the corridor, and the action leaves him in Yuuri’s space, only a handspan separating their bodies. Victor swallows. For the first time since he boarded, Victor can feel the lull and hum of the boat as it cuts through the water. 

He breaks away from Yuuri’s space, stumbling down the corridor again and towards where he thinks the elevator might be. Yuuri is laughing still, and then so is Victor as they both struggle to find their steps. “This boat wasn’t built very evenly.” Yuuri says, and Victor snorts.

“I don’t think it is the boat,” he whines through his laughter. The distant thrum of the music rumbles through the walls, and Victor vaguely recognises the song that is playing from earlier that night. 

“I love this one,” Yuuri sighs wistfully, as if he wants to go back, and then his hand is on Victor’s tie again. Victor lets himself be pulled into another dance, in the empty, brightly lit corridor. The echo of the music rings distantly in his ears, but all he can hear is the beat of his own heart; the tremble of Yuuri’s breath; the flicker of Yuuri’s laughter. 

Yuuri’s fingers are still tight around Victor’s tie, and Victor feels a heady burst of arousal work through him again as they dance.

“This is my… favourite song,” Yuuri breathes, his voice slurred a little, and tugs Victor a few inches closer so there is barely space between them. Victor thinks—Victor thinks Yuuri might kiss him. 

Victor’s fingers shift, in some attempt to pull Yuuri’s hand away from his tie, but instead he ends up with his fingers pressed to the inside of Yuuri’s wrist. He can feel Yuuri’s rabbit-fast pulse fluttering beneath his fingers, and then Yuuri’s grip on his tie tightens. Victor isn’t sure if he made a noise out loud, but he thinks he might have.

The distant, sober part of his mind tells him that this is  _ dangerous;  _ that Yuuri will pull away in disgust the moment he realises that Victor is—but he isn’t listening to the sober part of his mind.

“I should go back,” Victor breathes, again, his voice a breathless whisper only inches from Yuuri’s lips. 

“You could stay,” Yuuri mumbles, and Victor almost feels dizzy from the rush of images in his mind. He thinks of himself being pressed into the third-class mattress, Yuuri’s lips on his skin, and his whole body tingles with it. “I mean—Our bunkmates are still at the party—wait, I mean—I mean you could take one of their beds, I don’t mean—”

Yuuri is blushing, and Victor thinks;  _ I’m going to kiss him. _

“You can’t go back to first class like this,” Yuuri breathes. “You’re a mess.”

Victor doesn’t know why the insult feels like the filthiest compliment he’s ever been given. “I—”

Victor stumbles a few steps backwards and Yuuri, with his fingers still tight around Victor’s tie, helplessly stumbles with him until Victor’s back hits the wall. All of the breath leaves Victor’s lips when his back collides with the wall and his eyes drop to Yuuri’s lips. They both lean in, then, until there’s only an inch separating their lips. He can feel Yuuri’s breath on his lips; can feel the hammering of Yuuri’s heart, and his pulse against Victor’s fingers.

“ _ Yuuri!”  _ Phichit’s voice cries from the end of the corridor and both of them pull away like they have been burnt. Victor is almost glad for the intrusion; he was going to  _ kiss  _ Yuuri, and then Yuuri would hate him, and would no doubt tell his father, and then—well, then Victor would be  _ dead.  _

At least, his rational side is glad. The rest of him  _ aches;  _ a helpless desire burning through his veins. He lets his head hit the wall, and almost whines.

Yuuri is smoothing his hair down as Phichit rounds the corner.

“I’ve been—looking for you—” Phichit slurs his words, reaching out for Yuuri. “It’s  _ late…  _ I’m going… back now. Are you coming?”

Yuuri gives Victor a long look. “I—”

Phichit blinks a few times. “Oh. You’re still here—? Hi, Victor!”

“Hello,” Victor says, shakily. “I’m going to go back now. You two should—go to bed.”

“Will you—” Yuuri starts, pushing his glasses up.

“I’ll be fine,” Victor stumbles backwards a little. “I’ll—Goodnight.”

Yuuri stares at him, even as Phichit starts to pull him away in his drunken, exhausted state. “Goodnight, Victor.”

It takes fifteen minutes for Victor to find the elevator. It takes thirty all together for Victor to make it back to the right suite and, when he does, the edges of arousal have finally dissipated from his veins. He’s dizzy with the alcohol and the exertion and so, when he collapses on his bed, still dressed in his tuxedo, he falls asleep almost immediately. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the [fic pinterest;](https://www.pinterest.com/laurxnts/the-ship-of-dreams/) find us on tumblr [here](http://www.achillesandpatroclvs.co.vu) and [here.](http://www.jvstens.co.vu)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so sorry for the delay with this chapter! A new short story came out for another fandom we're both super invested in and so we've been trapped in A Different Hellhole for like a week now but we're back!! This is just a filler chapter but we hope you enjoy it anyway!  
> tw for some physical abuse/violence in this chapter

Victor wakes up with a hangover. He’s still in his tuxedo, sprawled out atop the covers of his perfectly made bed. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and something else rather unpleasant that Victor decides is just the  _ smell  _ of third class still clings to his clothes and his skin, and so he has to take a bath before breakfast. They’re having breakfast on their private promenade deck this morning—Victor, his parents, Mila, and Yuri—and Victor lets the soak ease his headache away. He remembers the steely gaze of his father’s valet from the third class hall last night, and suppresses a shiver. Breakfast is in twenty minutes, but Victor doesn’t lift himself from the tub until the last possible moment, trying to settle himself.

He knows he needs to be on sharp form for this. 

The promenade deck is streaked with sunlight by the time Victor walks in and sits down; the others are already there, and Victor mumbles his good mornings to all of them. Victor pours himself tea and stirs it slowly, deliberately avoiding his father’s gaze. He knows well enough that Father’s valet will have reported back to him about Victor’s night with Yuuri in third class but he also knows that Father isn’t uncouth enough to bring it up at dinner. That is one of the fundamental things about first class; manners always outweigh everything else. 

Breakfast is almost amicable, if not a little awkward, and Victor spends most of it resolutely avoiding catching his father’s gaze and pretending to listen to the stories told around the table. His headache and hangover lingers, just a little; a sting in the back of his head whenever someone clinks their cutlery rather loud, or his mother gives one of her  _ awful  _ laughs. 

At the end of dinner, his mother gets to her feet, wiping her hands on one of the fabric serviettes. “Alright. Mass is in an hour and we don’t want to miss it. Mila and I are going to retreat to get dressed.”

Mila stands and bids her farewell too and Victor feels the sinking sensation in his gut when they are gone, leaving him alone with Yuri and his father. Victor takes a deep breath, spooning some sugar into his tea and stirring it, more for something to do than anything else. 

“I should go too,” Yuri says. “I’m going to take Makkachin out for a walk around the deck.” 

“I’ll do it,” Victor says suddenly, rather harshly. The prospect of being alone with his father sets a cold beat of terror in his chest, but he knows Yuri is fully aware they need to talk. He knows that’s why Yuri is leaving them alone. “Makka  _ is  _ my dog, after all—”

Yuri gives him a sharp look as he gets to his feet. “I’ll do it, it’s fine.” 

Victor watches helplessly as his brother leaves the room, exhaling a breath when the door to the private promenade deck clicks shut. The sunlight streaks in through the windows; casting dappling patterns across the white tablecloth as the light catches on the plants lined by the window, and Victor focuses his attention on the shifting light. It’s easier than meeting his father’s gaze. Around them, the ship is waking up; on the other side of their windows he can hear the chatter of people taking morning strolls, can hear the rumble of life in the ship, and yet Victor feels helplessly, desperately alone. 

“You look tired this morning,” his father says calmly, after a few stretched out moments of silence. Victor clears his throat and hums, a noncommittal sound, scraping his spoon against the edge of the teacup before setting both down on his saucer. 

“I am,” Victor replies, because there’s no point in lying. He knows that his father knows where he was last night. 

“Late night?” 

“You should know that already,” Victor replies, eventually lifting his gaze to meet his father’s. He gives him his sweetest, saccharine smile and watches the flare it brings out in his father’s eyes. “Since you had your valet follow me.”

His father gives a tight lipped, unhumorous smile back, and Victor forgets he’s supposed to be scared. He levels his father with a sharp gaze. “Yes, your excursions below deck did seem  _ exhausting.  _ With that man—”

“Yuuri,” Victor says, carefully. 

“—that third class, Japanese—” His father’s voice trembles at the edges with barely masked anger, and Victor swallows. He recognises this tone; he recognises it, and he  _ hates  _ it. “You will not behave like that again, Vitya. Do you understand?”

Victor keeps his lips pressed tightly together.

“Do you understand?” His father echoes, the edges of his control splintering further. Victor can feel the heavy, quickened beat of his own heart; the shallowness of his own breath. “This family needs you to behave  _ appropriately _ ; I won’t have you tarnish the family name, I won’t—”

Victor holds back a bitter laugh. “I’m not a foreman in your business that you can just  _ command. _ ” Though he supposes, in a way, he is. “I’m your  _ son. _ ”

His father stares at him. 

“My son—my—my  _ son. _ ” Victor blinks, hard, watching the control dissolve in his father’s eyes. His father is on his feet then, plates and cutlery falling from the table and shattering on the floor. Victor can’t repress his reaction when he flinches, staring up at his father. “My  _ son— _ ” 

It takes one, swift movement for his father to overturn the table separating them; objects clattering to the floor, skidding across the wood or shattering on impact. Victor feels frozen;  pressed up into the curved back of the chair. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, pulling ragged and shallow breaths out of him as his father—stood above him now with nothing separating them but the debris of what was once their breakfast table—approaches. And Victor knows—he  _ knows _ what comes next.

“My  _ son,  _ yes, you  _ are, _ ” His father is shouting now, his voice rattling through Victor and he flinches again, pressing his eyes shut. 

The blow comes from his left before he can really brace himself; hard and sharp against his skin. He lets out a noise; can hear the broken, helpless tone of it, and turns his head to the side. It stings; the pain burning through him, but Victor can barely register it because his father is bracing himself on either side of Victor’s chair, and Victor has to—he has to look up.

“I—” 

“I’ve been good to you—despite everything, I’ve been  _ so good _ ; giving you the business, and the fianceé, and the— _ this  _ is how you behave?!” His father shouts, only a few inches separating him from Victor, and Victor can’t  _ breathe.  _ “You deliberately disobey me? Tarnish the family name?  _ Embarrass  _ us?!”

Victor can feel the burning behind his eyes and desperately, frantically, represses it. If he cries in front of his father, that will make everything worse.

“You are my  _ son,  _ and so you will honour me,” his father says, pushing closer to Victor, and Victor thinks he might hit him again. He lets out a shaky, helpless noise. “You will honour me the way a son is  _ required  _ to honour his father. Do you understand?”

Victor nods, desperately. 

“Don’t ever  _ ever  _ let me catch you with that Japanese man, like  _ that,  _ again,” his father says, his voice still sharp and full of anger. Victor just stares, helplessly holding back tears. His breathing is shallow, and he knows he must look  _ pathetic  _ in his father’s eyes. “Don’t ever let me catch you like that with any man, ever again. Am I making myself in any way unclear?”

Victor shakes his head. 

“Good.” His father straightens, standing above him, and smoothes down his shirt. For a moment, Victor thinks he might hit him again before he leaves, and so he presses his eyes shut to brace himself. “Excuse me.”

With his eyes closed, Victor can’t see his father retreating, but he can hear the sound of his footsteps across the wooden flooring and broken glass. Victor opens his eyes when he is sure he’s alone, and presses his hand to his mouth. He can feel blood welling on his lips, wet against the palm of his hand, and he lets out a shaky sob.

“Victor,  _ shit _ —” Yuri’s voice comes from the doorway, and then Yuri is walking across the room. He watches through blurred vision as his brother collects things from the floor, trying to clean up the chaos his father made. “Shit, I’ll just get the maid to—Victor, are you okay?”

“No, I—” Victor gets to his knees, beside his brother. “We should clean this up, before—”

His fingers are shaking as he reaches for the shattered remains of what Victor thinks was a vase. Yuri catches his wrist. “Victor.”

“I’m sorry, I—” Victor doesn’t know what finally provokes it: the sight of the debris; the press of his brother’s fingers against the inside of his wrist; finally registering the pain spreading from the left side of his face—he doesn’t know, but he falls back so that he is just sitting, and lets out a sob.

“It’s okay,” Yuri says, putting down the cracked vase in Victor’s other hand. “It’s okay. What happened?”

Yuri already knows the answer, Victor is sure. It’s not the first time Yuri has walked in on a sight like this. “It was just—he was angry; it’s my fault—”

“It was about that third class boy,” Yuri says, sitting next to him. Victor’s cheeks are hot; wet with tears. “Right? You disappeared after dinner, I thought you had probably gone with him.”

“I did,” Victor says quietly. 

He thinks back, and his memory of last is a collection of fractured imprints. Dancing with Yuuri; drinking; Yuuri’s fingers pressing against the base of Victor’s back; Yuuri’s flushed cheeks; Yuuri’s hand around his tie; the wall against Victor’s back—he feels himself flush, and it pulls out another sob from his chest. He knows why his father hates him—he doesn’t blame him, he doesn’t—

“He found out.”

“He had his valet follow me,” Victor laughs bitterly, brushing away his tears with the back of his hand. His breathing is still shaky, trembling out of him. 

“Victor, this isn’t— _ safe _ ,” Yuri’s voice is full of warning, and it’s different than his father’s warning. “You are going to get yourself killed.”

“I know, I know—” Victor mumbles, choking out another sob. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Marry Mila,” Yuri’s voice is softer, now. It’s uncharacteristic for Yuri to talk like that to anyone, and he knows it must be bad if his brother is talking _softly._ “Marry her; get off the boat in New York, marry her, get her pregnant, live a life with her. And—never see that Japanese boy again.”

“It’s not—” Victor doesn’t know what to say. He wants to say ‘ _ it’s not him’ _ because, even if he were never to see Yuuri again, this would happen again. Victor knows it would happen again, with some other man. Except, ‘ _ it’s not him’  _ doesn’t quite feel right. Because it  _ is  _ about Yuuri; because no one has ever made him feel like  _ this  _ before. “I don’t know if I can.”

Yuri sighs, snaking his arm around Victor’s shoulders and pulling him into his side. Victor leans against him, letting himself just sit like this. Most of the time, his brother is sharp and quick-tongued, with a vicious attitude. But sometimes, when Victor needs him to be, he is like this. 

“We need to get you something cold to put on that,” Yuri says, without moving. Victor knows he means the cut on his lip and the mark forming on his cheek. 

“In a minute,” Victor replies softly, exhaling a breath as he leans against his brother. 

Yuri whistles; a noise that Victor doesn’t quite understand the meaning of, until the door is being pushed open and Makkachin is padding across the private deck. Victor almost cries again, at the sight of his dog. Makkachin goes straight to Victor, pawing at his trousers and nudging up to lick the edge of Victor’s face. Victor wraps his arms around his dog, burying his face in soft, curled fur, and closes his eyes. Yuri doesn’t move from beside him, and they stay like that for a while in companionable silence; their shoulders pressed together as they sit on the floor of the promenade deck, with Makkachin snuggling and squirming in Victor’s arms.

* * *

 

Phichit is staring at him. Yuuri is only half-aware of it, but he knows Phichit is probably staring. The only thing Yuuri is really aware of is his  _ headache.  _ The smell of food in the third class dining hall is turning his stomach, but Yuuri could just about bear it, if it wasn’t for the  _ noise.  _ Before now, Yuuri has never noticed how noisy third class is. He groans, burying his head in his arms on top of the long dining table. 

Phichit, frustratingly, is  _ glowing.  _ He seems fine; he woke up with a grin and a cheerful voice. Yuuri had woken up almost throwing up in the bathroom down the hall. 

“Yuuri,” Phichit says, his voice way,  _ way  _ too loud. Yuuri manages a grunt in response. “Are you okay?”

“Hungover,” Yuuri manages to mumble back. Someone seated a few people down the table slams their cup down and laughs at whatever conversation they are having, and it feels as if his brain is  _ splintering.  _ It feels as if someone shoved a knife into his temple and, with every loud noise, is twisting it just a little bit deeper. “Wait, I take it back. Phichit, I think I’m  _ dying _ .”

Phichit laughs, and Yuuri wants to kill him. “I haven’t seen you this hungover since that night in Paris when—” 

Yuuri cuts him off with some kind of vague noise. He remembers that night very vividly, and the memory of the stench of alcohol twists his stomach. “Please, stop talking.”

“How drunk were you last night?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri lifts his head to look at him. Around them, everyone from third class is eating breakfast, sharing stories, laughing, and being horribly, painfully loud. 

“Well, let’s see,” Yuuri groans, running a hand through his hair and then pushing his glasses up from where they’d been disturbed from his moment of rest. “I drank about— _ nine  _ glasses of champagne in first class. And then I drank here too, and—”

He feels sick thinking about all the alcohol. Phichit is smirking. 

“What?” Yuuri practically whines. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You were dancing with him  _ all night. _ ”

Yes, Yuuri remembers. Somehow. “I think I remember. God _.  _ What was I  _ thinking _ ?”

“I don’t think you were,” Phichit laughs. “Yuuri, it was so  _ dirty.  _ You kept touching him; I’m surprised you didn’t get yourself killed. I’m surprised no one noticed _. _ ”

Yuuri feels himself flush, hard. He feels mortified; his memory of last night is fuzzy, barely coherent, but he can remember putting his hands on Victor.  _ Fuck.  _ He remembers spending the whole night drunk and needy; drunk and  _ aroused.  _ He buries his face behind his hands to hide his blush and lets out a humiliated whimper. He remembers pressing Victor against the wall in the corridor, his hand wrapped around Victor’s tie, and leaning in to  _ kiss him.  _ What was he  _ thinking _ ? Victor would have  _ killed him.  _

Then again, Victor didn’t kill him when he touched him as they danced. In fact, Victor had almost seemed to  _ like _ it—

Yuuri cuts off his own thoughts. 

“Phichit, I want to die,” he mumbles behind his hands, and Phichit laughs. “I mean it. I want to throw myself off the back of this ship and  _ drown. _ ”

“You know that you almost kissed him too, don’t you?” Phichit says, dropping his voice so that only Yuuri can hear him in the clamour of the third class dining hall. “If I hadn’t interrupted, you would have kissed him.”

Yuuri groans. “Phichit, I—” 

“Yuuri,” Phichit catches his wrist, pulling his hands away from his face. Meeting Phichit’s eyes is a struggle; Yuuri is  _ mortified.  _ “You know I love you, right?”

“Right.”

“And you know that you’re my best friend, right?”

“Right,” Yuuri says, again, more warily this time. “What—”

“You’re  _ losing your mind, _ ” Phichit says, with an air of finality to it as if there is no way this can be disputed. Yuuri stares. “He’s from  _ first class,  _ Yuuri.”

“We’ve had this conversation,” Yuuri says, humiliation burning on his cheeks again. He drops his head so that it thuds against the wooden table. “I really don’t want to have it again.”

“But you didn’t listen to anything I said since you dragged him to third class to—” Phichit lets out a breath. “Yuuri, what were you hoping for? Do you want to—”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Yuuri mumbles, helplessly.

He feels embarrassed that they’re talking about this; his whole body burning with his awareness of it. Yuuri has kissed boys before—well, only two boys—but thinking about it  _ this  _ way feels… different. He’s never— And as much as he hates to hear it, Phichit is right. The prospect of—with  _ Victor _ —is ridiculous. It’s dangerous. Victor is from first class; he’s a man; he’s  _ white.  _ It would be like throwing himself into some kind of bear trap. 

“It’s like you want to get yourself killed,” Phichit says, quietly. His voice is full of worry. 

“Right now, I do,” Yuuri replies self-deprecatingly. He sits up straight, removing his head from the wood of the table. The paper napkin from the table has stuck to his skin from the clammy sweat—from nerves, and the hangover—and Yuuri pulls it off and throws it aside. He groans. “I can’t believe I almost  _ kissed  _ him.”

“I want you to be happy, Yuuri,” Phichit sighs, taking a sip of his coffee and lighting up a cigarette. At  _ breakfast.  _ “I really do. But you can’t—this isn’t going to make you happy, it’s going to make you dead.”

Yuuri stares at him for a few moments, his cheeks burning. “But I—Phichit, I  _ like  _ him.” He glances to either side of him to make sure no one is listening to them, and then leans closer across the table. He feels hot from the admission, but presses on nonetheless. “Phichit, I  _ really  _ like him.”

Phichit looks sad, and Yuuri feels stupid. “He’s dangerous, Yuuri. He’s  _ so  _ dangerous.”

“I know,” Yuuri responds. He thinks about last night, again, and then something in the back of his mind reminds him, like a spark, of the valet watching them from the steps. He thinks of the cruelness of Victor’s father at the first class dinner; thinks of the stiff discomfort rolling off Victor in waves when he interacted with his father. Yuuri’s stomach drops. “Right now, I think he might be in more danger than I am.”

Phichit stares. “Yuuri, whatever you’re thinking— _ don’t. _ ”

He thinks of Victor hanging off the back of the ship. “I can’t just walk away now.”

“This is  _ crazy _ ,” Phichit pleads. 

“I know,” Yuuri says, with a breathless laugh. “I know. It doesn’t make any sense, I know. I  _ know.  _ But I—”

“ _ Yuuri,”  _ Phichit whines this time, and Yuuri laughs. 

“Come on,” Yuuri snorts. “This is no more crazy than you learning poker to impress that barman you wanted to get with. Or us jumping that train to Paris; or us ending up on the way to America.”

“Yes, it  _ is,”  _ Phichit laughs. “Yes, it is. This is insane; Victor is from first class, he’s—”

“A man,” Yuuri says, as if reciting it from a script. “A white man. I already know that; but last night, he wanted me to kiss him, I know he did. And his family are brutal; I can’t just—”

Yuuri gets to his feet, having made his decision, and Phichit calls out another desperate plea.

“I’m sorry, Phichit,” Yuuri calls as he walks towards the exit. “I’ll see you at lunch!”

* * *

 

Victor buttons up the last few buttons of his pressed, white shirt and stares at himself in the long mirror. Mass is in fifteen minutes, and Victor is still shaken from breakfast; the mark on his cheek is an angry red, marring his pale skin. His fingers fumble on the last button, trembling just a little as he thinks back to his father’s fury in the promenade— 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes so that he does not think about it. It’s then that he hears the door click shut, and wonders if he is about to go through another round of verbal flaying from his father. He opens his eyes. In the mirror behind him, Victor can see his mother standing by the large, carved door. 

“Mother,” Victor says, softly. He knows her tongue can be just as cruel as Father’s; but she does not shout or lash out. Her anger is always a sharp knife edge; icy and calm and—Victor is better at handling that. 

“Victor,” she replies, pacing across the room slowly, until she is standing just behind him in the mirror. He does not bother to turn around; he can meet her gaze in their reflections. There’s a long stretch of silence, in which Victor goes back to dressing, and then she speaks again. “You are not to see that boy again, Vitya.”

Victor stays silent, leafing through some ties in his drawer, looking for the right one.

“Vitya,” His mother says, more sternly, and Victor resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I forbid it.”

He slides his fingers over a light blue tie, and considers if he’s going to wear that today. He gives the decision his full attention, mulling over it deliberately, just so that his attention is only half-focused on his mother. He can hear her irritated breath when she realises he is not listening, and he smiles. 

“Victor.”

“Oh, mother,” Victor sighs, thumbing the blue tie. “If you carry on like that, you’ll give yourself a nosebleed.” 

Her hand is tight on his bicep, forcing him to turn around to face her with the tie still clutched in his hand. He stares at her, at the iciness of her gaze and the shallowness of her breath, and for a moment he thinks  _ she  _ might hit him. She’s never—before. She doesn’t hit him; she simply stares at him, fixing him in place with a cruel glare.

“This is not a game, Victor,” she says carefully, her voice composed and level despite the look in her eyes. “Your situation is quite precarious; if you do not behave, you are going to ruin everything.”

“Mother, I—” 

“No,” she cuts him off. “I’m not going to hear it. Your father has been so good to you; handing the business over to you, arranging your marriage with Mila. It is a fine situation, and if you keep—you are testing him, and you are on the very edge of what he will allow you.”

“Please, mother,” Victor laughs, but it does not sound humorous. “He finds everything I do distasteful.”

“That’s because you never—” his mother takes a deep breath, pressing her fingers to her lips to compose herself. “I know this isn’t what you want; the business, the marriage. I know it is not what you want.” 

Victor stays silent, shifting a little.

“I know that you fell in love with ballet more than I intended when I started teaching you,” she says, and Victor’s heart beats painfully in his chest. He had been so caught up thinking about Yuuri today, that he had almost forgotten that he was giving up ballet forever. “And I know that you—”

She cuts herself off as if whatever she intended to say is far too much to put into words. Far too distasteful. He thinks he knows what it is. 

“This isn’t fair,” Victor breathes out, laughing just a little. 

“Of course it isn’t fair, Vitya,” her fingers move up to brush some of his hair to the side, tucking it behind his ear. “I know what your father is like; I know how he….can be.”

Then her fingers drop to his cheek, to the bruise forming on his pale skin, to the split on his lip. She touches it ever so slightly with the pads of her fingers—a gentle, loving touch—and yet Victor pulls back sharply, with a wince. He sees something in her eyes for the first time; something he’s never seen before whenever she used to catch sight of his bruises. There’s a bitter curl of something in his gut as he wonders, for the first time, if Father has ever hit her. 

“Mother,” Victor mumbles softly. “I—”

His mother reaches down and pulls the tie from between his fingers, folding up the ends of his collar and sliding the tie around his neck. She works on it in silence, sliding the fabric between her fingers as she fastens it, and Victor’s heart beats a painful pattern against his ribcage. She pushes the knot up to the collar and folds the edges down again, smoothing down his chest as she looks up to meet his gaze.

“Promise me you won’t see that boy again,” she whispers, and there’s something uncharacteristically sad in her eyes. “Vitya.”

“I promise,” he grits out, and the words taste awful on his tongue. Her fingers reach up to his cheek again, brushing soft fingertips against bruised skin, and Victor closes his eyes. She kisses his other cheek, her fingers twirling around a strand of his hair, before she pulls back and smiles.

“I’ll see you at Mass,” she says, taking a step back, and Victor nods.

“Yes, Mother.”

* * *

 

Yuuri retraces the steps to the first-class dining hall easily; it isn’t hard to find his way back when the grand staircase is built like the centrepiece of the ship, and so Yuuri barely even thinks when he weaves his way onto the first class deck. He gets even more stares than he did last night, since Yuuri is dressed in his own clothes today, and his off-white shirt and suspenders stand out in counterpoint to the expensive suits and dresses. Yuuri tries not to care, but by the time he has reached the staircase, his hands are clammy.

He can hear the chorus of passengers singing along to a hymn in the hall and he stops, just around the corner, to compose himself. He runs over what he wants to say to Victor a hundred times in his head, until it starts making  _ less  _ sense than more sense, and then he forces himself around the corner. He wipes his shaky palms on his trousers and heads for the glass doors.

He can just about make out Victor’s silver hair in the crowd beyond the door before the two stewards put their hands forcefully on his chest. Yuuri blinks.

“No, I—I just need to speak to somebody,” Yuuri says shakily, forcing his voice to work as he gets pushed a few steps backwards, and away from the door. “Please.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” one of the stewards says. Yuuri feels ridiculous; he knows how out of place he looks, how silly it is for him to be here and, under any other circumstances, Yuuri wouldn’t dare to put himself in a situation like this. Yuuri avoids difficult and awkward interactions—or most interactions in general—as often as he can, but this is  _ different.  _ This is about  _ Victor.  _ And Yuuri has to see him.

“I just need to speak to somebody,” Yuuri says, again. “It won’t take a minute, I need to speak to V—”

“You need to go back to third class now,” the steward cuts him off, the politeness of his voice barely masking a hundred things that Yuuri doesn’t want to think about. 

“I was just here last night,” Yuuri pleads; a final, desperate attempt. “You don’t remember me? I had dinner here, I—”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t remember you,” the steward replies, and Yuuri wants to laugh. Of course he  _ does  _ remember Yuuri; there’s no way these stuck up, first class idiots would forget the only Japanese man in the room. From the other side of the glass doors, he sees Victor’s Father’s valet walk up, swinging the doors open and stepping out to join the three of them in the lobby. Yuuri thinks his luck just got worse; he vaguely remembers the valet watching them last night.  _ God.  _

“Look,” Yuuri says, gesturing weakly to the valet. He knows it’s a long shot, but he tries it anyway. “He’ll tell you. I was here last night.”

The valet is smirking, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Mm.”

“I need to speak to Victor,” Yuuri glances over the valet’s shoulder, at Victor in the mass. Victor isn’t looking up. “Five minutes?”

The valet steps between the two stewards, only a few inches away from Yuuri, and so Yuuri takes a step backwards. “Mr. Nikiforov and his parents are  _ so  _ appreciative of your help the other night. In fact, they asked me to give you this as a thank you.”

The valet takes a few notes out of his pocket—more money than Yuuri has had in a long time—and extends them towards him. For a moment, Yuuri thinks about taking it. He and Phichit need the money; they need it  _ badly.  _ They barely have anything, and in New York, they’ll have even less unless they find a labor job soon, and Yuuri knows that money could get them through the first couple of weeks there. Phichit would hate him for not taking the money. He glances down at it, and then back again at the intricately patterned glass of the doors; at the just-visible sight of Victor beyond them. 

“I don’t want your money,” Yuuri says as forcefully as he can. “I just want to speak to—”

“As a thank you,  _ and _ —” The valet raises his voice, cutting Yuuri off. Yuuri feels his cheeks heat up from the humiliation of it all. “And to remind you that you hold a third class ticket.”

Yuuri takes a small step back, his cheeks burning. 

“And that your… presence here,” the valet is giving him a long look, from head to toe. Yuuri almost squirms from it, “is no longer appropriate.”

Yuuri swallows, hard. “I—I just wanted to speak to Victor.”

“Gentlemen,” the valet is giving the two notes to the stewards, now, and Yuuri knows he pushed him just a fraction too far. He wonders for a moment what exactly they are being paid to do, and wonders if Victor’s father is going to let his valet pay to have Yuuri beaten. “Will you see that Mr.—”

“Katsuki.” Yuuri says, and then bites down on his own tongue. He decides he might have Phichit cut his tongue out when he gets back so that he can never,  _ ever  _ speak to another person again in his life.

“—Mr. Katsuki gets back to where he  _ belongs _ ,” the valet is staring at him, cold and hard. “And that he stays there.”

“Yes, sir,” the stewards chorus together, and then their hands are on Yuuri, dragging him away from the first class lobby and down into the elevator.

Yuuri squirms in their arms, just a little, before deciding that complacency and obedience is probably the best course of action. The last thing he needs is for them to make his situation any worse and so, when they shove him out into the third class corridor, Yuuri begrudgingly makes his way back to his and Phichit’s room. He hears them shout something after him as he walks down the corridor, but he does not let himself register what they said. He swings the door open to his and Phichit’s room and collapses on the bed, staring up at the metal bars of Phichit’s bunk above him. 

He stares for a long time, trying to work out how exactly he is going to get Victor alone to talk to him, before the entire feat starts to feel very hopeless. He flips over onto his stomach, buries his face into the pillows, and groans. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, we hope you all enjoy the chapter!

“This set of lifeboats was built to hold another row inside,” Mr. Andrews—the ship’s architect—comments as he leads Victor and his family through the ship. “But it was thought that it would make the deck look cluttered.”

Victor trails a few paces behind his parents, Mila’s arm looped through his. They are receiving a tour of the ship, and have already been shown the Bridge—where Mr. Andrews granted them with a long monologue about the steering wheel. Somehow, Mila and his parents manage to seem interested in everything Mr. Andrews has to say; a feat which Victor can’t seem to do himself. Some of the information is interesting, if not tedious, and Victor’s mind lingers for the briefest of moments on the fact that the ship does not hold enough lifeboats for everyone aboard.

“It is a waste of deck space anyway,” his father says ahead of him, tapping the edge of one of the lifeboats with his cane. “Especially on a ship as unsinkable as this one.”

The tour itself is not stimulating enough to occupy Victor’s mind, and so he finds his thoughts drifting back to the night before; to Yuuri’s hands on his waist as they danced; to Yuuri’s uninhibited movements when he had challenged Phichit to that,dance off—to the heady feeling of being pinned between the wall and Yuuri’s body in the corridor. Victor swallows, and reminds himself of breakfast; of his father’s anger that still stings his cheek.

He hears his mother laugh softly at something Mr. Andrews says, and reminds himself of the promise he made her. He forces thoughts of last night out of his mind.

“Lunch is rather soon,” Victor comments idly, trying to bring his mind to the present. He turns his head to look at Mila, walking in acquiescence beside him. She, unlike the rest of his family, has not mentioned last night even once, and he wonders if this is how it will always be when they get married.

She turns to look at him, and smiles a little. “Yes, this has gone on longer than I expected.”

Victor gives a small laugh, and she smiles. The heat of her fingers against the crook of his elbow as they walk is almost familiar, and Victor wants so badly to make this work—to _want_ it to work—but he _can’t._

He looks out at the vast expanse of the ocean, the corusdating patterns of sunlight on the surface are bright and golden; telling Victor that it is midday without having to check his watch, and yet the ocean air is still biting and chill. Ahead of him, his mother makes another tour request that would have them moving into the dining area, and Victor resists the urge to roll his eyes at the prolonged tour.

“Forgive me, Mr. Andrews,” Victor says as they step away from the row of lifeboats on the deck and towards the large doors leading to the grand lobby. “From what you said about the lifeboats, partnered with the number of people onboard… There are not enough lifeboats for everyone on the ship.”

Mr. Andrews laughs, a warm sound. He turns to Victor’s father, a smile on his lips. “Your son does not miss a thing. He has a good eye for detail; he’ll do well in your business.”

Victor’s father glances in Victor’s direction, a cold and hard glint in his eyes. “Yes. Let’s hope so.”

“There are not enough lifeboats by half, in fact,” Mr. Andrews says then, missing the sliver of tension that passes between Victor and his father. “But you needn’t worry; I have built you a good ship.”

“If she went down,” Victor says slowly. “Half the people on this ship would—”

“Not the better half,” Victor’s father says, cutting Victor off sharply. He laughs at his own words, and so does his mother, before both of them glance at Victor with something akin to wryness. Victor swallows. He knows what that is directed at, and he weathers the comment.

Once they step into the lobby, Victor carefully slips his arm out of Mila’s, breaking away for a moment. “If you’ll excuse me.” Victor says. “I just have to go to the restroom.”

His father nods curtly in acknowledgement and Victor sets off down the corridor, perfect black shoes clicking against polished marble. It’s partly true that he needed the restroom; but more than anything, he needed the moment of solitude to breathe. The tension that always ribbons through him whenever he is forced to act like _this_ with his parents, and Mila, is exhausting, and Victor likes to take a few moments alone sometimes. To compose himself.

He splashes some water on his face from the faucet and exhales a deep breath, bracing his hands on the edge of the basin. Behind him, the door clicks open and shut, as another first class man walk into the restroom. Victor straightens, composing himself, and busies himself washing his hands.

“Good afternoon,” Victor says as he washes his hands, because it is polite, and then Victor notices something familiar in the mirror above him. He looks up, watches the man take off his hat, and stares at Yuuri through the mirror. He turns on the spot. “Yuuri.”

“I know I’m not supposed to be here, “Yuuri says, tucking the hat under his arm. “But I had to see you—I had to talk to you.”

Victor glances at the bathroom door, and gets a strange spark of fear that his father might suddenly walk in. “I can’t.”

“Look, I—”

“No,” Victor cuts him off sharply. “I can’t. How did you—did you _follow_ me here?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, sheepishly, his cheeks blooming with colour. He fishes out his glasses from his pocket—he must have taken them off to disguise himself further—and slides them back on. “Your father’s valet wouldn’t let me talk to you this morning at mass; they wouldn’t let me in.”

“That’s because you are not supposed to _be here,_ ” Victor’s voice is perhaps too cold, and Yuuri looks hurt for a moment. Victor feels terrible. “I have to go back. I can’t see you.”

There’s something like fear flickering in Yuuri’s eyes and it’s only then that he realises how nervous Yuuri looks; how restless he is as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. The tremor of his breathing is familiar; the same as it was before they entered the first class dinner. He concludes, then, just how much effort it took Yuuri to muster the courage to seek him out, and Victor thinks the least he can do is listen. He exhales a breath, and turns to face Yuuri fully.

“You’re unhappy,” Yuuri says suddenly, and then frowns, as if this conversation is not going at all how he planned it to in his head. Victor almost laughs, the sentiment leaving him feeling warm; a bubbling fondness for Yuuri that Victor is trying very hard to suppress. Then, his words sink in and Victor feels the warmth die—turning to something cold and dead in his gut. “I can see how unhappy you are.”

Victor takes a step back, and collides with the basin behind him. “I’m not—I’m engaged; I’m marrying Mila,” Victor says, shakily, as if this fact is vitally important to whatever it is that is falling between them. He swallows, pushing the words out when he says; “I love Mila.”

Something softens in Yuuri’s gaze, and he shifts from foot to foot again. “No, you don’t. We both know that you—”

“Stop it,” Victor cuts him off. “I was drunk.”

Yuuri lets out a breath of laughter that might be his nerves, and turns on the spot a little. He passes a hand over his face, and then presses his fingers into his eyes, as if trying to think of a good way to proceed. “This isn’t going how I thought it would, I—”

Victor huffs out a breath. “I should go.”

“No, listen,” Yuuri hurries the words out and Victor can tell he’s speaking too fast to think about his words before he says them. “You’re no picnic, Victor.”

Victor raises an eyebrow.

“You’re a spoiled brat,” Yuuri says, and Victor lets himself look more offended than he feels.

“Thank you,” Victor says. “Did you follow me here just to say that?”

Yuuri laughs, burying his face in his hands. “That’s not what I meant—I mean, it is, but I didn’t mean it to come out like that—God, I—” Yuuri groans, and lowers his hands, forcing himself to look up at Victor. “What I meant was—underneath that, you’re—”

Victor shifts. “What?”

“You’re the most—” Yuuri averts his gaze, a flush colouring his cheeks again. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

Victor stares, watches the colour erupt in Yuuri’s cheeks. The words are barely audible but they’re enough to bring out a warmth in Victor’s own cheeks. He opens his mouth to respond, and then closes it again, unsure of what exactly he should say to that. No one has ever left him without words before, not like this.

Yuuri lifts his gaze, just for a moment, as if checking how his words were received.

He takes a moment to compose himself, and then says, again. “Did you follow me here just to say _that?_ ”

“No, I—”

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, and this time the words almost hurt to say. “I have to go…”

He moves towards the door and Yuuri’s hand curls around his arm, pulling him back. For the second time since they met, Victor finds himself pinned between a solid object and Yuuri’s body; the basin pressed hard into his back. Victor swallows, and his eyes drop to Yuuri’s lips on instinct. He forces himself to look up at Yuuri’s gaze, even as it flits away from Victor’s eyes.

“No, wait, let me try and get this out,” Yuuri says helplessly. “Please.”

Victor exhales.

“I’m not here to ask anything from you, I just—I know how the world works, I know we’re not supposed to—I know we’re _different,_ I just—” Yuuri looks embarrassed. “I’m involved now. I don’t think I can turn away. Especially not without knowing that you’ll be alright.”

Victor can’t help but smile at that, and feels something burning behind his eyes. Yuuri looks worried; but not about how he will be received this time. Worried about _Victor._

“Yuuri,” he practically whispers, resisting the urge to reach for Yuuri’s hand; to comfort him. He does not want Yuuri to look this on edge ever again. “I will be fine.”

Victor feels rather irritated at the concept of Yuuri worrying about _him,_ when Yuuri is the one almost shaking with nerves, standing in a first class bathroom even though doing so is a risk to his own safety. When Yuuri is the one who will have nothing—nowhere to go—when the ship docks. Of course, he would be more irritated if it was not for the way Yuuri’s apparent shyness sends a fluttering feeling of warmth to his stomach. Victor clears his throat.

“They have you trapped there,” Yuuri murmurs. “And you’re going to die if you don’t break out. Not right away, because you’re strong, but—eventually—eventually, it—they’re _killing_ you, slowly, and— _”_

“Stop it,” Victor says, shakily, the words getting to him more than he’d like to admit.

“That fire that I—” Yuuri lifts his gaze to look at Victor properly for the first time, and the light glittering in his eyes is startling. There’s something so raw, so _honest,_ in Yuuri’s eyes in a way Victor has never seen from anyone before. He’s nothing like anyone Victor has ever met; shining with life, and love, and—all the things Victor could never have envisioned feeling before Yuuri. “—that fire that I love about you… sooner or later, it’s going to burn out.”

 _Love._ Victor’s breath hitches just a little at the word, at all of Yuuri’s words, and he feels their fingers brush together. Yuuri has taken his hand, tangling their fingers together. He can feel the clamminess of Yuuri’s hand; the physical manifestation of his anxiety, and Yuuri’s other hand reaches up to thumb across the bruise blooming on Victor’s cheek, the cut on his lip.

“Did they—” Yuuri breathes, and Victor closes his eyes at the touch. When he opens his eyes, he can see the nerves glittering in Yuuri’s eyes, almost overlaying everything else, as if he is hyper-aware of his own daring as he touches Victor. Victor thinks, if he reacts too abruptly, it will scare Yuuri, and the last thing he wants to do is scare him.

“It is not up to you to save me,” Victor murmurs after a moment, his breath soft against Yuuri’s thumb. “Just like it is not up to me to save you from your circumstances, I—”

“No, you’re right,” Yuuri’s fingers brush against Victor’s jawline; the touch less to do with the bruising, now, and more to do with the simply intimacy. Victor shivers underneath it; no one has ever touched him like _this_ before. The light in Yuuri’s eyes tells him that the sentiment is mutual; Yuuri is looking at him as if all of this is new to him, too. As if he’s never touched anyone like this before. “One of the things I’m learning from you is how to—how to do things _myself._ I can’t save you from this; only you can do that.”

Victor blinks. “I—”

He thinks about kissing Yuuri.

“Victor, all I’m saying is—”

They both hear the footsteps outside of the door, pulling back as if they have been burnt. There’s panic flaring bright in Yuuri’s eyes, and Victor swallows around the pulse thudding in his throat at how close they came to being caught, touching like _this._ The reality of what they were doing; of what Victor almost did, hits him like a rush of cold water, stealing his breath. It’s too dangerous; everything is too dangerous—and he remembers what he promised his mother.

No one enters the restroom, but the moment has broken.

“Yuuri, I have to go,” Victor says resolutely, pushing himself off the basin. His skin tingles where Yuuri had touched him. “They will be wondering where I am, and you—it’s too dangerous for you to be in here.”

“Promise me you will think about what I said,” Yuuri breathes, still shaking with nerves. Victor hates leaving him like this; when Yuuri is so visibly distressed, so obviously anxious. He wants to stay and talk him down, like he did outside the dining room, but he _can’t._

Victor forces the words out, and forces them to sound icy cold. “Leave me alone.”

He lets the bathroom door swing shut behind him when he leaves, not glancing back at Yuuri. He walks down the corridor and hopes that his footsteps don’t falter on the polished flooring.

* * *

 

Yuuri doesn’t mention his talk with Victor during lunch with Phichit; in fact, Yuuri does not mention Victor at all. He doesn’t need the lecture again, and there’s nothing Phichit can say that Yuuri hasn’t considered over one hundred times himself. Instead, he asks Phichit about the girl he was dancing with at the party; listens to Phichit talk about New York, and what he and Yuuri are going to do when the boat docks; and lets his mind drift off to other things.

Phichit is talking animatedly about some rumour he heard about New York, and Yuuri lets himself laugh, taking a bite of the bread roll in his hand. A week ago, Phichit and Yuuri only had enough money to eat once a day—if that—and now they are getting three meals a day, free of charge, and Yuuri spent last night dining in _first class._ Lunch is only bread and stew, but compared to _nothing_ —

Yuuri can’t help but let his mind drift to Victor eventually, though, and his thoughts linger on the bruise marring Victor’s light skin that was hot beneath his fingers; the fresh split on his lip. It makes him feel sick, and he wonders if Victor is thinking about what he said—if Victor is—He wants, so badly, more than before, to get Victor _out._ His cheeks heat up when he thinks about the words he let himself say; far more daring than Yuuri would ever usually let himself be, but he does not regret it for a moment. Not if it makes Victor leave that family.

“Alright, what is it?” Phichit says suddenly, stopping his retelling of a story from the party last night. “You’re not listening to me and you’re picking chunks out of your bread. That always means you’re nervous, Yuuri.”

Yuuri looks down at the wooden table and sees that Phichit is right; it’s littered with crumbs and chunks of bread that Yuuri has teared out with his fingernails; a nervous habit. Yuuri groans. “It’s nothing. I think I need to clear my head.”

Phichit sighs. “I’ll save you some bread!”

“Okay,” Yuuri stands up, brushing the bread crumbs off his lap. “I’m going to take a walk and then I might draw or something. I’ll see you later tonight.”

Yuuri walks to where he always walks these past few days when he needs to clear his thoughts, or ease the anxiety that so often thrums through his veins. He walks to the very front of the ship. He tries, at first, to sit on one of the benches and sketch out a few ideas but his mind is too preoccupied with thoughts of Victor, and his fingers tremble from the nerves that won’t dissipate, no matter how hard Yuuri tries to white out his thoughts and focus on the scratch of charcoal on paper.

Eventually, when the sun has shifted from its position high in the sky to lower, near the edge of the water, reflecting on the ocean’s surface, Yuuri tucks his sketchbook away in his satchel and walks to the very edge of the ship. The railing comes to around waist height and so Yuuri leans on it, knotting his fingers together as he looks out at the ship slicing through the water; the crash of waves against the edge of the ship as it ploughs on towards America. At this point of the railings, there is nothing but ocean in his line of sight; almost like he’s falling, and the illusion sends a swooping sensation of anxiety in his gut. Irrationally, he grips the railings as if he might fall, and then forces himself to see it differently—not falling, _flying._

He takes a deep breath of ocean air as it pushes against him, brushing his hair back out of his face, and he lets himself look out at the vast expanse of ocean. He revels in the feeling that he is flying above the waves, on his way to America, and that alone seems to—strangely—ease all the tension in Yuuri. His mind is still dazed, addled by thoughts of Victor, but with the sight of the ocean in front of him and the shifting colours of the sky from a bright blue to a cascade of orange and pink, Yuuri feels somewhat at peace.

* * *

 

“Victor. You’ve been stirring your tea for over five minutes now.” A harsh whisper snaps Victor out of his thoughts and he blinks, passively turning his gaze to his left. Yuri is leaning in closer, concern and irritation etched across his teenage features. “What are you doing?”

“Mm?” Victor clears his throat, scraping his spoon on the side of the teacup before setting it down with a clink. “Nothing.”

“You are so _annoying,”_ Yuri mumbles. “Start acting normal.”

Victor gives his brother a tight smile at that, before letting his gaze fall back on the table as they chatter through lunch. Victor’s mind had been elsewhere, which is not a particularly unusual thing for Victor, but this time he had been thinking about Yuuri—about the bathroom, about Yuuri’s fingers on his skin, about the rawness of his gaze, the painful truth of his words. He thinks about the implications of it all—that Yuuri might have been offering—and Victor swallows hard. He has read signals wrong before, and this time—this time it is too dangerous, even if he is reading the signals right.

He forces himself to focus on the lunchtime chatter; they’re talking about— _God,_ they’re talking about the wedding. Victor feels sick.

“Oh, and picking the music and the band—what an odyssey that has been,” his mother says with a light laugh. The countess tilts her head questioningly. “So, Victor wanted this… quaint… little string quartet that none of us have ever heard of, in fact, he even tried to pick the music for the wedding—of course, all of those details should be left up to the women. He doesn’t know anything about music.”

Victor presses his teeth together. He’s a _dancer._ He knows about music. The songs he requested for the wedding were songs he used to dance to and practice to when he was younger; he had thought—if he could dance to them one last time—

“And he knows I _detest_ that song he picked,” his mother laughs, a mocking sound, and his teacup clicks against the saucer as his fingers tremble. “So, of course, I have stopped him from meddling in the wedding.”

“And, Mila,” the countess says, setting down her saucer. “What have you decided on the bridesmaid dresses?”

Mila shifts, to his right, and for a moment Victor thinks he sees a ribbon of tension run through her; as if she’s almost as uncomfortable as he is. “I wanted lavender. But—”

“I don’t like lavender,” his mother adds, saccharine sweet. “So we’re going for a rose colour, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” Mila says, and smiles politely. Victor glances at her, at the careful way she holds herself, the way her smile is tight-lipped and forced. He wonders how much of his discomfort towards this entire thing is mutual.

“Ah, at least everything is running smoothly now,” his father says, and there’s just the slightest edge to his words. “All of the hiccups have been sorted.”

“You all must be thrilled,” the countess sighs adoringly. “How soon is the wedding? A handful of weeks, only, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” his father says. “It’s going to be a very big ceremony—and with the business moving to New York and the match between the Nikiforov heir and the Babicheva’s youngest daughter, we’re hoping to make the front page, or at least make it to the papers.”

“Oh, how delightful,” the countess says with a bright smile. “I’ve heard you have been looking for a fine heir for Victor for a long time.”

“We have,” his mother says, then, and there’s something under her words that makes Victor feel a little nauseous. “We’ve brought him many suitors over the past five or six years, and he has always complained—but then we met _Mila._ And the match was so perfect that we were almost glad it has taken this long.”

Victor exhales. He remembers all of those prospective marriages when he was seventeen, eighteen, when he had dined with young women—only fifteen or sixteen in age—and had wondered why the prospect of marriage had turned his stomach so much. Then, at seventeen, he had been pressed against the wall of a bathroom by a man he had met at a dinner party—a man he had spent all of the dinner trying not to stare at—and their hands had fumbled with belts, hurried and desperate, and—afterwards, Victor found that the sickly feeling in his gut at the prospect of marriage made too much sense, and hated himself.

There had been more than one bathroom encounter like that by the time he met Mila. It was never sex, never kissing, never anything but the rushed and hurried movement of their hands and the sinking, terrible feeling that always came afterwards. It wasn’t love when he met Mila. It was acquiescence.

_I can’t save you from this; only you can do that._

The teacup rattles against the saucer as Victor’s hands tremble, and he sets them both down with a clatter, his heart racing, rabbit-fast, against his ribcage. He turns his attention away from the lunch table—finding it too much to bear—and instead looks to the table beside him, to the parents sitting with their two children. Their son who can’t be any older than fifteen, and their daughter who can’t be much older than sixteen.

“Yes,” their father says to one of their dinner companions. “We’re looking for a suitor for him, already. We are wanting him married by sixteen, it’s the best way forward for him. And then I will teach him everything about the family business.”

“Oh, I think that’s marvelous,” Victor can just about hear their companion say. “And the girl?”

“We are thinking about sending her to university, just to find her a suitable husband of course,” the mother says with a smile and then turns to her daughter, shifts her a little so that her posture is better. “Straighten up, darling. We’re not animals.”

The girl flushes. “Yes, mother.”

Victor stares, and wonders how many more children there are like Victor himself, like Mila—chained to fates and futures that they didn’t ask for. He feels sick, and thinks of Yuuri, of the way he talked at dinner; about moving from place to place, taking each day as it comes, and Victor’s chest aches with a longing he has never truly acknowledged until now. His eyes burn, the threat of tears, and—

For the first time, he realizes how much he wants that. How much he wants—he thinks about Yuuri in the bathroom, of the possibility of his words offering a hidden meaning—of a way out, even if it is just until the boat docks.

Victor thinks he’d take that fleeting escape over _nothing;_ over this.

“I have to go,” he says, more clearly and forcefully than he has spoken all dinner. He pushes himself to his feet.

“Where are you—” his mother starts, and Victor does not listen to her.

He brushes his hands on the serviette, and sets it down. He does not hurry out desperately like he did that first night on the boat. Instead, he tucks his chair under carefully, and turns deliberately. His heart hammers wildly in his chest; a frantic flurry of emotions that Victor does not bother to make sense of, but his steps are more determined and deliberate then they have been since he set foot on the ship.

“I’ll see you later,” he says to Yuri as he passes, and makes his way out of the dining hall, barely acknowledging the feeling of his family’s eyes on him.

It’s only once he is out of the hall that he starts walking faster; the aching that has been thrumming through him for days— _years_ —climaxing in this one, desperate need. He has to find Yuuri.

* * *

 

Yuuri closes his eyes against the spray of ocean air, feeling it drizzle on his skin even from this height; ocean spray carried by the wind. Sunset arrived this evening in earnest; painting the ocean a brilliant shade of burnt orange, the colours shifting on the water’s surface. Yuuri looks out at the canvas of colours, at the blend of orange and pink—the colours almost indistinguishable from one another now.

All Yuuri can hear is the clap of ocean waves against the side of the ship, the shudder of the evening wind coming in from the horizon, and the steady, constant thrum of the boat under him. He lets himself bask in it, in the white noise, until he hears a voice behind him.

“Hello, Yuuri.”

_Victor’s voice._

Yuuri turns on the spot, the base of his spine pressed up against the railings, and looks at Victor across from him. He’s stood a few paces away on the deck, bathed in a caramel glow from the setting sun. His hair is tousled, shifting wildly around his face from the force of the ocean air. His cheeks are flushed pink; either from the chill wind or simply from being here, and Yuuri drinks in the sight of him. Of the way the burnt orange catches on his silver hair and reflects in his blue eyes and—Yuuri thinks he must be smiling, and forces his face into composure.

Almost as if unnerved by Yuuri’s silence, Victor takes a careful step forward and speaks again. “I changed my mind.”

There’s a wild, unrestricted swooping sensation in Yuuri’s gut at that; the flutter of his heart in the very pit of his stomach and it sets a giddy feeling alight in his veins. He finds himself unable to speak; words stolen right from his throat, and so Yuuri simply watches the glow that the sky gives Victor; as if he’s lit by the embers of an immense fire.

“Phichit said you might be up here, I—” Victor starts, and this time Yuuri dislodges his throat only enough to shush Victor, a gentle and soft noise but Victor falls silent nonetheless. He does not know what he’s doing; does not even know _what_ to do, but suddenly he remembers Victor hanging off the back of the ship, looking down at the huge precipice with the intention of jumping, and he decides he wants to give Victor _this._

Not falling, this time. Flying.

He extends his hand. “Shh. Come here.”  

Victor blinks, looking down at Yuuri’s extended hand, and then glancing back at the length of the deck. It’s empty here, but the tension ribbons through Victor like wildfire anyway—like the very act of touching would be too much, even alone. In the moment of inaction that stretches on, Yuuri feels his nerves peak in his chest; hyper-aware of his extended hand, an offering that has not yet been accepted, and Yuuri wants to drop his hand and never act again. He forces himself to remain unmoving.

When Victor looks back at him, there’s a flare of something in his eyes that looks like determination; like resolution. He takes a few steps forward, and slips his hand into Yuuri’s. It steals all the breath from Yuuri’s lungs and his heart behaves strangely in his chest. He leads Victor a few steps forward, closer to the bow of the ship.

“Close your eyes,” Yuuri mumbles, and Victor does. He laughs breathlessly, and Yuuri drinks in the noise, hardly able to believe he’s doing this. With Victor’s eyes closed and his smile—Yuuri thinks about kissing him right now, but he can’t—they can’t.

Yuuri feels _ridiculous_ but he almost does not care, leading Victor until his stomach is pressed against the railings at the very edge of the ship. Victor seems surprised, reaching forward to grip onto the railings, and Yuuri stands behind him—so, _so_ close, but not touching.

“Climb up the railing, just—one or two of the bars,” Yuuri says, his voice shaky, and watches—miraculously—as Victor obeys.

“Are you planning to throw me off the ship? I hope you won’t; I’ve been told that the water is very cold,” Victor laughs shakily, and Yuuri can’t help but laugh too.

“I told you to shush,” Yuuri mumbles, nudging him so that he steps up onto the second bar of the railing. “Keep your eyes closed and no talking.”

Yuuri glances around, to make sure they are still alone, and then steps up onto the railing too, bracing himself behind Victor’s body. He glances over his shoulder at the view of the ocean stretching out in front of them; the Atlantic rolling towards them, and draws in a breath. He holds himself carefully; trying very hard not to touch Victor’s body with his own, and holds onto the railing.

“Hold out your arms,” Yuuri says softly, and knows that his voice must be directly into Victor’s ear now. Victor’s breath audibly shivers.

“You want me to let go of the railings, now?” Victor says, laughing again. “You really must be planning my murder.”

“ _Victor,”_ Yuuri says sharply but still full of fondness, and then they both laugh. “Hold out your arms..?”

Victor shakily holds out his arms like a songbird preparing for flight, and the careful balance, the way he holds himself is breathtaking. Yuuri has to take a moment, just to admire him from this close proximity, and then he takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” Yuuri breathes out, almost against the curve of Victor’s neck. “Open your eyes.”

Yuuri cannot fully see Victor’s face to know for sure, but Victor must open his eyes, because Yuuri hears the sharp intake of breath from his lips. He tries to see it like Victor sees it—for the first time—and drinks in the sight of the Atlantic stretching out like a rippling copper canvas, catching the glittering light of the sunset. He remembers how it felt for him to feel as if he were flying for the first time, and imagines how it must feel for Victor; to soar above the Atlantic with a freedom as vast as the ocean, after _forever_ trapped with—them.

His lips are near the edge of Victor’s cheekbone, and Yuuri has to keep himself in check before he brushes his lips against Victor’s skin, working a pattern down to the bruise—He flushes at the thought, his body fever-hot with the idea and the press of Victor’s body, just an inch from touching his.

Victor’s breathing is shallow in his chest, and the lengths of his arms, his fingers, are all trembling with it.

“I—It feels like _flying.”_ He breathes out, Russian accent thicker as Victor loses himself to the sight ahead of him.

He leans forward, pressing against the barrier, and Yuuri does not think when he steadies him; fingers pressing into the curve of Victor’s waist. He feels the realisation of it in Victor as well as himself; they’re touching; and it’s so daring, so dangerous, that Yuuri wants to remove his hands. Victor does not say anything, though, and so Yuuri keeps his hands where they are; feeling the heat of Victor’s skin through his clothing.

Even at his waist, Yuuri thinks he might be able to feel the wild flutter of Victor’s heartbeat.

Yuuri doesn’t keep his words in check when he speaks; doesn’t even check himself enough to say them in English. Instead, he mumbles nonsensically in Japanese, quiet enough for the words to be carried away by the wind if it weren’t for the fact that his lips are almost touching Victor’s ear. He mumbles fragments of sentences; things like _you’re flying, we’re flying_ —and other, unrestricted and idle words that seem to send something trembling through Victor’s body.

Victor shakily lowers his hands, placing one of them on the railings in front of him to support himself, and the other—Yuuri feels Victor’s fingers brush against his own, pressed into Victor’s waist, and the shock of it makes Yuuri’s breath catch in his throat. He feels the way it affects Victor too; the simply act of touching suddenly feels so paramount for both of them, so overwhelming, and Yuuri wants desperately to run away before he does something stupid.

When Victor turns his head to look at Yuuri, their faces are only an inch apart, and Yuuri can’t help but look at Victor’s lips. They both exhale then—shaky and helpless—and their breathing mingles hotly in the small space between their lips. Yuuri feels frozen—standing on the precipice of some unknown—and he wonders if—if they’re going to _kiss._

_Here._

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes out, and it sounds like a plea. Yuuri closes his eyes for a moment and swallows, trying to quell the nerves that threaten to bubble up in his chest. When he opens his eyes, Victor’s gaze is just as intense as it was before.

“Victor, I—” Yuuri hears himself say, his voice shaky and breathless. He feels Victor shift in front of him, pressing back so that the lengths of their bodies are touching, and Yuuri feels himself catch fire; every nerve-ending he has setting ablaze from this one, simple thing.

“We can’t stay here,” Victor says, his voice broken, like speaking is some great effort for him. Yuuri cannot say he blames him; his own breath is stuck in his throat. Victor shifts, differently, then and Yuuri has no choice but to step down, and Victor follows moments after.

It feels almost strange to be standing back on the deck; the solid ground beneath his feet makes him feel dizzy and off-balance, the weight of his limbs suddenly unfamiliar and—Yuuri realises for the first time that he’s shaking.

Victor has this look in his eyes; this wild, reckless look, and he catches the fabric of Yuuri’s sleeve. “Come here.”

“Where are we going?” Yuuri laughs, letting himself be dragged forward by Victor. “Victor!”

Victor is laughing—Yuuri can just about hear him—and then he’s being pulled behind a row of lifeboats; a hidden, secret corner on the deck. The ocean wind plays with the strands of their hair, and Yuuri lets himself be tugged forward into Victor’s space.

With the deck stretching out around them, and the almost endless expanse of ocean behind them, it shouldn’t feel secluded. But it does. This little, tucked away corner of the deck, hidden and—

Victor pulls Yuuri forward until their bodies are pressed together, Victor’s back pressed up against the railings of the ship, and Yuuri struggles to draw in a breath. His heart is hammering wildly and—and he can feel Victor’s heartbeat against his.

“I changed my mind,” Victor says, again, as if it’s important enough to need repeating, and his voice is a breathy whisper only inches from Yuuri’s lips.

That’s when Victor kisses him.

Yuuri almost gasps, shock running through him, but his breath is caught in his throat and— _god_ —he’s too distracted by the feeling of it; of Victor’s lips pressed against his, warm and inviting, and Yuuri doesn’t know how—doesn’t know what to—It takes him a moment before his eyes slide shut, and in that tiny moment he feels Victor’s anxiety; Victor’s agitation, as if he might be rejected, and—Yuuri parts his lips, and feels the first shift of their mouths together.

It comes naturally after that; the slow movement of their lips together and the slight, gentle noises that it pulls from Victor. Yuuri hesitates before he lets his hand find the curve of Victor’s waist—almost too scared to touch as if Victor might pull back, _horrified_ at what Yuuri is doing. Victor’s fingers shift to the back of Yuuri’s neck, sliding through his hair, and Yuuri lets out a noise into their kiss, pressing forward into Victor’s space.

He feels Victor open beneath him, the parting of his lips; the first, exhilarating, gentle meet of their tongues—cautious, as if even here, both of them are terrified of crossing some barrier that they already crossed when their lips met. He doesn’t know how long they kiss for, slowly and tremulously, until the passion starts to build—starts to edge towards something they shouldn’t dare touch, especially not _here._

It whites out all other thought then except this one, simple thing; the perfect, impossible feeling of Victor’s lips; of Victor’s tongue brushing his. The sunset melts away around them, the last dusting of sunlight slowly ebbing away when Victor pulls back.

There’s a glossy, bright look in Victor’s eyes; a flush on his cheeks, lips reddened and kiss-swollen, and Yuuri stares. Victor smiles.

“I have an idea,” Victor whispers against his lips, grinning wildly. “Come on. Let’s go to my rooms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a [pinterest board](https://uk.pinterest.com/laurxnts/the-ship-of-dreams/) for this fic, and you can also follow us both on tumblr and twitter (alex: [tumblr](http://achillesandpatroclvs.co.vu), [twitter](https://twitter.com/llaurentofvere)) and (emma: [tumblr](http://jvstens.co.vu), [twitter](https://twitter.com/casscaixn))
> 
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> **please note that the rating for this fic will change to explicit next chapter!!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God we're so sorry for the delay with this chapter; here's 13,000 words of fic to make up for it! We hope you might forgive us for the wait after reading this one ;)  
> Oh, and thank you to everyone who's been adding us to their fic rec lists on tumblr; we've seen them all and it makes us Very Happy!!!

Yuuri isn’t sure why he’s letting Victor lead him through the first class hallways, not when they stand out so obviously, not when Yuuri’s risking everything just by stepping out of the elevator and onto the rich, polished wood. Victor’s fingers are loose around Yuuri’s wrist, the point of contact just enough to make Yuuri’s skin buzz with the reminder of what had happened not ten minutes ago—Victor, inches away from Yuuri as they’d stood on the rail of the ship; Victor, pulling Yuuri behind a lifeboat; Victor, tugging Yuuri flush up against him and _kissing_ him, Yuuri’s hand gentle on his waist. It barely feels real, but the press of Victor’s fingers against the inside of his wrist as they make their way to his rooms reminds Yuuri that at the very least, he’s not losing his mind.

Through some carefully-orchestrated miracle, they don’t pass a single person once they reach the first-class living quarters. Victor has remained stubbornly quiet, his brow furrowed in thought, and Yuuri doesn’t push him to speak. His own mind is whirring as it is. Part of him is still terrified—terrified that Victor is going to push him away, terrified that Victor is going to scream for an officer and have Yuuri shot on the spot for daring to lay lips on a white man, and yet. And yet, when Victor stops in front of a rich mahogany door, his thumb sweeps across Yuuri’s pulse point and he beams, his mouth turning up into a delicate heart shape that makes Yuuri’s heart trip over itself in wonder, and he can’t make himself believe that Victor is going to do any of those things.

“We’re here,” Victor says, and his voice sounds deeper, more intimate. Yuuri manages a nod, still caught up in the half-wild glint in Victor’s eye. His sketchbook is, surreally, tucked under his arm. Victor had been the one to pick it up off the bench on the deck; he’d handed it to Yuuri, as careful as if he’d been handling art worth his sizeable fortune, and then taken his wrist with a small smile.

Victor unlocks the door and pushes it open in one smooth, effortless motion, holding it open for Yuuri to enter. Yuuri can’t make his feet move; he doesn’t know what lies on the other side of that door, neither in terms of what extravagant decor a family like Victor’s might have, nor what might fall between them once they are alone. Yuuri simply stares and Victor, undeterred, breaks into another smile.

“Come on,” Victor says softly, holding the door open with one hand and Yuuri’s wrist with the other. “We can do this out here if you want but I, ah, would rather not.”

 _Do this?_ Yuuri doesn’t even know what they’re going to—He feels Victor tug on his wrist; less of a demand and more of a question, and Yuuri feels a swooping sensation in his stomach as he steps over the threshold and into Victor’s elaborate suite.

It’s even richer than Celestino’s suite and twice as large, and Yuuri pauses with the door still open behind him when Victor leads him inside. After a long moment of staring at the gilded furniture, the art on the walls, the spacious sitting room, Yuuri has to take a moment to consciously close his mouth. Victor doesn’t even seem to blink at their surroundings, though when Yuuri looks back at him, he’s smiling.

“How do you live like this?” He blurts, and then feels himself flush. Victor barks a small laugh, but his eyes are soft and trained on Yuuri’s. He still hasn’t let go of Yuuri’s wrist.

“You get used to it,” he says, and Yuuri isn’t sure he believes him. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

The bedroom is grand, though Yuuri is surprised not to see evidence of a second occupant; as much as it hurts to remember, Victor is engaged, but his rooms don’t give any indication that anyone else lives in them. They don’t spend long on the tour—Victor seems almost agitated, his eyes flicking back to Yuuri’s face every so often, despite the sure grip around his wrist. They end up back in the sitting room, and Victor shifts his weight from foot to foot restlessly.

“Victor,” Yuuri starts, finally letting some of his concern break into his voice. “What are we doing here? It’s dangerous, if someone comes in—”

“No one will come in,” Victor promises, and uses his free hand to push his bangs away from his face. He looks around, and seems on the verge of asking Yuuri to sit down, before seeing something in his face. Victor’s expression softens, along with his grip. Yuuri shifts the weight of his sketchbook against his hip.

“Why are we here, Victor?” Yuuri asks again, and this time, his voice is softer.

“I was a dancer,” Victor says, abruptly. Yuuri blinks at him, confused. “Back in London. I practiced ballet for years, with my mother’s old company. They said I could have had a career, that I could have been a star. My father, he made me give it up when I turned twenty. He told me that I should focus on learning how to run the company, how to be a businessman. But I kept practicing in private, and—”

“Victor,” Yuuri says, and Victor cuts himself off sharply, something wild loose in his eyes that Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

“You drew that dancer back in Paris like he was beautiful. Like he—like he meant something to you.” Victor’s hand drops from around Yuuri’s wrist and Yuuri is inches away from reaching out for him again, until Victor moves away, turning to unlock a safe sitting inconspicuously under the mantle. Yuuri watches, his pulse tapping a stuttering rhythm against the pulse point at his wrist.

When Victor turns back to him, he has a black velvet box clenched tight in his hands, his knuckles white around the edges. His hair half-covers his face, but Yuuri can see the flush high on his cheekbones. He wants to reach out, brush the hair away, lay a reassuring kiss to Victor’s lips or cheek or forehead, but all he can do is stand still, watching. Waiting for something, though he isn’t sure what.

“I’m supposed to give this to Mila,” Victor says, and his voice is shaking now. He meets Yuuri’s eyes almost stubbornly, his chin jutted. “My father bought it for her, my _fiancee_ , and I am supposed to love her. This—it is supposed to mean something to me, it is supposed to go to the person I am to spend the rest of my life with.”

Yuuri waits, with baited breath, and after a drawn-out exhale, Victor opens the box.

It’s—quite possibly the most expensive thing Yuuri has ever laid eyes on, including Victor himself. The sapphire—diamond?—at the center of the necklace is a glittering blue, the same color as the waves Yuuri had held Victor over twice, now. A few shades darker than Victor’s eyes, and yet nearly as piercing. The entire necklace shimmers in the warm light, and Yuuri is too scared to reach out and touch it, though his fingers itch towards the sparkling stones, drawn to the undeniable beauty. It also, upon closer inspection, looks indescribably heavy.

“You drew that dancer like your love for him was beautiful, no matter what the rest of the world thought,” Victor says, his voice wavering at the end. Yuuri reaches out, and this time it is his fingers wrapping around Victor’s wrist, his grip loose and careful.

“Victor,” he murmurs, again, and has to stop his voice from cracking. “What are you asking?”

Victor inhales, sharp, and for a moment Yuuri thinks he is going to pull away. But his shoulders stay high, and his chin stays jutted, and Victor does not retreat into the façade of his wealth and position like Yuuri had seen him do before. Instead, his eyes fix themselves on Yuuri’s, and Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat.

“I want you to draw me wearing this,” Victor says. Something flashes in his eyes, and he tilts his chin a little higher. “Wearing _only_ this.”

* * *

 

Victor’s heart has been pounding staccato beat in his chest since he’d opened the door of his suite, eyes tracking Yuuri’s expression as he’d shown him the extravagance that only now seems as if it might have seemed overindulgent. He’s barely been able to look away from Yuuri, in fact, since he had been pressed up against the rail of the _Titanic_ and kissed, thoroughly, for the first time in his life.

Showing Yuuri the Heart of the Ocean feels like the most dangerous thing Victor has done in a long time—more dangerous than being kissed practically in public; more dangerous than following Yuuri through the halls of the third class level; more dangerous than his rushed, adrenaline-fueled encounters with other society men in the bathrooms of banquets, sequestered away from the vicious eyes of his father. Showing Yuuri the Heart of the Ocean feels like admitting Yuuri access to some deep, terrible part of himself. A part of himself that has always known he could never be who his father needed him to be.

Victor takes a deep breath, looking across at himself in the mirror; the same one that he caught his mother’s eye in only twelve or so hours ago. The rich mahogany door behind him is mostly closed—only a small gap remaining from which light from the adjacent room spills in. The room in which Yuuri is currently waiting for him. Victor undresses himself slowly, and his fingers fumble on each button of his shirt; hyper aware of what he is about to do. He almost hadn’t expected to get this far; the idea of letting Yuuri draw him had been something tucked away secretly in his subconscious, only truly surfacing when they had separated behind that lifeboat.

He unfastens his belt and finds himself distracted by his own reflection as he does so; sliding the leather out of the belt loops and letting it drop onto the floor. His cheeks are stained a light pink in disbelief that this is not some unattainable dream. He steps out of his trousers and places them where he’d placed his shirt, folded neatly over the back of his chair. Once he is unclothed, Victor lets himself look at himself in the mirror: at the slender fall of his limbs; his pale skin; the balance of his proportions. His body isn’t hairless, but his hair is fine and light enough that it’s barely visible, except for where the light catches on the thin trail of fair hairs that leads down the path of his navel, softly muscled and pale.

He runs his own fingertips across the plane of his stomach, and draws in a light breath. His mind is hazy with the knowledge that he is going to allow Yuuri access to _this,_ but he knows it is what he wants. He finally drags his eyes away from the mirror, and sees Mila’s chiffon draped casually on the back of his chair. She had been wearing it last night when she was getting ready for dinner, and she had come in to ask for his opinion on her dress. She must have left it there by accident, but the sight of it sparks thought in his mind.

Victor reaches for it, and rubs his thumb across the fabric. It’s soft and sheer beneath his fingers, and Victor contemplates.

But it’s— _women’s_ clothing.

Victor’s eyes flicker to the necklace sitting open on his dresser. Well. So is that.

Victor exhales a deep breath, and pulls the robe up. He slides it on, and feels the weight of it around his shoulders; it’s feather-light and soft, and Victor’s heart beats hard in his chest. Everything about what he’s doing—what he’s about to do—is ridiculously daring, and dangerous, and yet. Victor ties the robe loosely at his waist, and lets his eyes flicker up to himself in the mirror.

The fabric is sheer enough that Victor can see his body underneath it. His hair is slightly windswept from the minutes he’s spent letting Yuuri hold him up against the railings, and there’s a flush on his cheeks from—everything. He slides the necklace around his neck, and fastens it as carefully as he can. It’s heavy; an ever-present weight against his neck, sitting cooly on his skin in the place where the robe parts, and his heart drums a beat underneath the diamond.

Every piece of this, of what he’s about to do, feels like the ultimate act of rebellion against his father’s carefully spun plan for him, and Victor feels, under everything, a giddy sense of exhilaration.

With the necklace in place, and the robe draped over him, there is nothing left to do but open the door. Victor swallows hard, and his throat shifts beneath the weight of the diamond. He closes his eyes and steels himself for what he’s about to do; his fingers tremble when he reaches for the door, clicks the doorknob around, and opens the heavy mahogany.

Yuuri looks up from where he’s sat, sharpening one of his pencils with a penknife. Victor notes vaguely that Yuuri has rearranged the furniture in the room; that he’s pulled one of the sofas into the centre, and positioned his own chair in front of it. Victor barely registers that, though. All he can think about is Yuuri’s eyes on him.

And, oh, when Yuuri’s eyes lift from his careful movements, finding first Victor’s face and then, slowly, the rest of his body—it’s intoxicating. Victor can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes from his throat when Yuuri shifts, his eyes dark as they dart down over the sheer fabric barely protecting what’s left of Victor’s modesty. Unsure of what to do with his hands, Victor grips the tie of the robe lightly, swinging it in a loose circle.

“All my life, people have been telling me what I should do,” Victor starts, drawing Yuuri’s gaze back up to his face. He can feel the beginning of a flush high on his cheekbones, and he takes a few steps forward before his mind can try to convince him that this is a terrible, _insane_ idea. Yuuri is starting to blush too, or maybe it’s the lighting—soft and golden and relaxing enough that Victor manages to make it all the way to Yuuri, sitting in his chair and shifting slightly with every step Victor takes.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, on an exhale. Victor tugs at the loose knot of the gown’s belt, undoes it with shaking fingers as Yuuri’s eyes stay fixed on his face.

“I think that it’s time for me to do something that _I_ want, instead.” Victor can practically hear his heartbeat, as the sheer fabric of the gown parts down his chest and Yuuri’s eyes drop, instinctively, to where Victor’s arousal is resting half-hard against his thigh. Victor’s eyes slip shut, his lips part, and as he lets Mila’s dressing gown fall to the floor he can hear Yuuri’s soft gasp.

The room is slightly chilled but Victor barely feels it, too caught up in the intoxication of being bare and _vulnerable_ in front of Yuuri, _for_ Yuuri. For a moment, neither of them talk, and Victor can feel the weight of what he’s just done pressing down onto his shoulders.

“I—um—” Yuuri stammers, and Victor opens his eyes. Adorably, Yuuri is looking _away_ from him, cheeks definitely flushed now and fingers playing agitatedly with one of his charcoal pencils. “On the—um, you can lie down on the bed—the _couch_ , sorry—”

“Okay,” Victor says, and the smooth cadence of of his voice seems to ease at least a few of Yuuri’s nerves. The short few steps it takes him to get to the couch Yuuri has arranged carefully in front of his chair feel like an eternity; Victor can feel Yuuri’s eyes on him, watching the shift of muscle in his lower back and hips, and tries not to feel too aware of his gait. Grace had been trained into him by his mother as a child, practicing in her studio long after all of her primas had left for the evening, and Victor lets it ebb into his steps as he walks and lies, gingerly, on the embellished cushions of the sofa.

Victor tries to arrange himself on the sofa, awkwardly; hyper-aware of his own body now that he is unclothed. He has no real knowledge of how to pose for anything like this, and his only point of reference is his memory of Yuuri’s drawings—and, then, the models were at least wearing _clothes._

“You can—put your arm back where it was,” Yuuri says shakily, his own voice almost as tremulous as Victor’s breathing. “Above your head.”

Victor does as he’s instructed, moving his arm up above his head and shifting to comfortably rearrange his limbs as much as he can. He exhales a soft breath, and feels it ghosting on his own lips.

“And then—maybe, put the other up by your face,” Yuuri says, surer now, and Victor finds that he likes the flicker of confidence in Yuuri’s voice. Victor shifts his arm up by his face, and lets his eyes flicker to Yuuri’s, looking for some sign of assurance. “Yes, like that, and—tilt your head down, just a bit. That’s good.”

Victor swallows, trying to compose himself and quell the rabbit-fast beating of his own heart as Yuuri rearranges his sketch pad on his lap, more confident in himself than Victor has ever seen him before. Victor had hardly even noticed the moment that Yuuri had switched from the nervous, reserved man he’s been getting to know, into this _artist_.

“Don’t ever take your eyes off me,” Yuuri says, and picks up his pencil. Victor watches the sure grip of his fingers, the way he holds the pencil as if he’s intimately familiar with its grooves and angles, and Victor thinks—he _wants_ , for a blinding moment, Yuuri’s hands on him like that, familiar and sure and bold.

Victor can do nothing else but watch as Yuuri’s pencil connects with the paper, looking up intermittently to study Victor, eyes flickering across the curves of Victor’s body as he draws. Victor feels—more exposed than he’s ever felt; his bare skin cream in the soft, golden light of the room. He can feel his own pulse beating underneath his too-fine skin, hypersensitive now that it is exposed; barely containing the tremulous thrumming of his heartbeat.

Yuuri’s eyes shift across the curve of Victor’s waist as he draws, down to the sharp line of his hips, and Victor’s eyes flutter shut. He feels hot from the awareness of it; of Yuuri’s eyes on him, even with his own closed. His arousal is flushed and warm against his thigh, almost fully hard now, and Victor would feel abashed if it weren’t for the heat in Yuuri’s gaze when he opens his eyes.

Victor sees the moment that Yuuri’s eyes fall between his hips; to the curve of his length against his thigh, and watches as the colour hits Yuuri’s cheeks.

Even despite the rabbit-fast beat of his pulse, Victor manages to smirk. “I believe you are blushing, Mr. big _artiste._ ”

Yuuri glances up to meet Victor’s gaze, and simply smiles a little, shy and gentle, and something in Victor’s stomach flutters.

“I can’t imagine Monsieur Monet blushing,” Victor remarks playfully, drawing on his knowledge of the art hanging in the chamber of his mother’s parlor just down the hall; beautiful works she’d had brought over specially. Yuuri meets his gaze, and there’s almost a challenge in them. Victor swallows, his throat dry.

“Monsieur Monet paints landscapes,” Yuuri says, and Victor exhales a shaking laugh. Yuuri lets him have the moment, smiling too, before he says; “No laughing. Keep your face straight.”

Victor clears his throat, and runs his tongue across his lips in some attempt to compose himself. “Okay. Sorry.”

Yuuri’s eyes stay fixed at the juncture of Victor’s hips for a long moment, his eyes darkening momentarily before his gaze and his pencil move on, fingers carefully smudging a few strokes, and Victor can’t help but watch Yuuri _look_ . It’s almost intoxicating; Victor has never let himself be looked at like this, be _seen_ by another man. It brings to mind the memories of all those encounters hidden away in the bathrooms of grand banquet halls, pressed too tight against the wall to even be able to see his partner’s face. Victor has never allowed himself the simple luxury of being seen and _wanted_ , and Yuuri’s eyes on him feel like electricity.

He doesn’t know how long he lies on the couch, arm poised above his head and legs bent carefully; everything seems to fall away except for Yuuri’s eyes, Yuuri’s fingers firm on his pencil as it scratches across the thick paper. He can feel his breath, shallow in his chest, and wonders if Yuuri can see the way his fingers are still shaking, even after all this time. He never thought—this is terrifying, and liberating, and something Victor had never thought to want before.

“Victor,” Yuuri says softly, after a period of gentle silence. “I—think I’m finished.”

Victor’s heart flutters wildly in his chest at that and he slips carefully off the sofa. His legs feel weak beneath him as he tries to stand; a culmination of too long lying in the same pose, and the simple, thrilling dizziness from what he has just done. His breathing is still behaving oddly, even as he locates the robe and slides it back on, tying it loosely around his waist. The fabric itself feels almost too much against his skin, after being so long exposed, and the gentle brush of the thin material as he pulls it over himself has his pulse reaching a silly crescendo in his throat.

“Can I see?” Victor says, feet padding across thick, rich carpet.

Yuuri looks up at him. “Okay.”

* * *

 

Yuuri thinks that he might have forgotten how to breathe. Having Victor before him like that had been more than Yuuri had ever dared to imagine; even in the moments of Yuuri’s wildest fantasies, when he had reached the moment of seeing Victor naked, his mind had not been able to draw up an image of what—of how—and, then it had _happened_ , and Victor had looked more beautiful than Yuuri could ever possibly have _dreamed_.

Victor crosses the short distance between the sofa and Yuuri’s chair, and the sheer fabric does nothing to cover the lines of his body underneath. Especially now that Yuuri has seen beneath it. Yuuri shifts as Victor moves behind him to look at the drawing, and—like reigniting an almost burnt-out flame—Yuuri feels his nerves light up like wildfire.

Victor is silent for a moment, save for a small breath escaping, and Yuuri shifts, again. He suddenly wants to shut his sketchbook, and end this moment as quickly as he can.

“Is it—okay?” He manages, and swallows around the fear fluttering in his throat.

“ _Yuuri,_ ” Victor practically purrs, leaning down so that he’s closer, and his thumb brushes the corner of Yuuri’s paper. “It’s perfect.”

Yuuri can feel Victor’s breath against his ear, and it sends a shiver through him. “Do you like it?” He asks apprehensively, voice soft.

Victor slides his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders from behind, almost as if—having crossed this barrier—Victor’s reservations have fallen away, at least in the safety of his own rooms. The touch is gentle and, surprisingly, chaste; Yuuri leans back into it without a second thought. Victor’s fingers toy with the buttons of Yuuri’s shirt, almost more in search of something to do than anything else. For a long moment, they both stare at the drawing. Now that he’s no longer caught up in the exhilaration of the moment, Yuuri can see spots of the drawing that he could adjust, go over again with darker or different lines—and yet, for once, he doesn’t have the frantic urge to immediately cover up each mistake and inconsistency. Victor’s breath is warm against the shell of his ear.

“I love it,” Victor murmurs, and for a wild moment, Yuuri imagines that he’s saying something entirely different. He shakes off the thought; it’s ridiculous, he’s barely known Victor three days, and yet—and yet, Yuuri cannot ignore the wonder in Victor’s voice, the shock and amazement and adoration bundled up in that one soft phrase, and Yuuri feels something constrict in his chest that terrifies him. “Oh, Yuuri, it’s _amazing_.”

And then, before Yuuri can stop himself, he turns his head and catches Victor’s lips between his own. He feels more than hears Victor’s gasp, and then Victor practically melts into him, adjusting himself so that the angle is not quite so terrible on Yuuri’s neck. It is their second kiss, and Victor is perhaps over-eager and inexperienced, and yet Yuuri cannot help but feel as if he’s been doing this all his life. He never wants to stop, he thinks, and it sends a thrill up his spine.

“Yuuri,” Victor murmurs, breaking away, before Yuuri presses himself closer for yet another kiss, and another, until Victor has to put a hand flat against Yuuri’s chest to keep the two of them separate. “I should—I should change, in case someone—”

And then, suddenly, Yuuri remembers exactly how dangerous it is. It is like ice water in his veins, the shock unexpected and unwelcome. He draws back immediately, as far as he can while still pressed into the chair, and Yuuri knows that Victor can see it on his face as his spirits start to fall. Victor’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything as he retreats back into the bedroom, the door shutting firmly behind him with a sharp _click_ , and Yuuri is left alone.

He sits, for a moment, unsure of what to do in the unexpected splendor of Victor’s sitting room. For a moment he’s terrified that someone will come bursting in to arrest him, or shoot him on the spot, but the hallway is silent outside of the rich wood of the door, and Yuuri lets himself relax fractionally.

In the end, it does not take Victor very long to dress. He emerges from his bedroom not five minutes later, in dark slacks and an unbuttoned shirt, suspenders hanging from his belt loops as he scrawls something on a sheet of paper. He looks disheveled, almost, and something about it sends a curl or warmth sparking through Yuuri’s gut, whispering at him to push Victor against the fine wall of his decorated room and make him look even _more_ undignified. Yuuri stamps down on the impulse, and simply lets himself enjoy the view for a moment.

“Yuuri,” Victor calls, voice distracted and light. “Could you put this back in the safe for me?”

He holds out the black velvet box he’d pulled out earlier, and Yuuri’s heart skips a beat.

Inside that box is probably the most expensive thing that Yuuri has ever seen, and Victor is trusting him with it. _Him_ , a poor, Japanese boy with nothing to his name except for the few dollars sitting at the bottom of his pocket. It’s almost as overwhelming as Victor, standing in front of him and dropping the sheer gown to the floor.

“Yeah—I, of course,” Yuuri stammers, and takes the box with both hands. Victor smiles at him distractedly, his hair falling into his face, and Yuuri smiles back. He crosses the room and kneels behind the sofa where the safe sits, its door open and contents exposed. Yuuri takes one look inside and almost forgets about the priceless jewel in his hand—inside are stacks of cash as thick as his wrist, all piled on top of each other next to several sheets of paper Yuuri can only guess the purpose of. It takes a long moment to shake off the shock and slide the black velvet back into its evident place, and when Yuuri stands again Victor appears to be finishing whatever it is he’d decided to write down. He signs the paper with a flourish, and looks up at Yuuri with another grin.

“Do you mind if I keep this?” He asks, and holds up Yuuri’s sketchbook, still open to Victor’s portrait.

It’s not Yuuri’s most technically perfect work—not by a long shot—but something still clenches in his chest at the thought of letting it go. But—the portrait is also Victor’s, in a way that supersedes the fact that it is a picture of him; it is perhaps the first thing in Victor’s life that displays his own autonomy, his own choices. When Yuuri looks at it, it is undeniably a work of love, and if Victor wants to keep it, Yuuri doesn’t think that he has much of a right—or a will—to say no.

“Of course,” he replies, and Victor practically radiates satisfaction as he carefully tears the page out of Yuuri’s sketchbook, fingers gentle against the thick paper. He crosses the room in quick strides, and Yuuri notices briefly that his shoes are untied before Victor is crouching next to him and slipping the papers in next to the jewelry box. Yuuri’s breath catches in his chest—what is Victor _doing_ —and then Victor leans over and kisses him softly, his hand coming up to stroke across Yuuri’s cheek.

“Thank you, for this,” Victor says when he pulls away. Yuuri blinks, and then his hand catches Victor’s. He threads their fingers together, and Victor’s smile is blinding.

“Anything, for you.” It’s the most honest Yuuri thinks he’s ever been, raw and stripped down by everything Victor has trusted himself with. He glances down, only to find that—tragically—Victor’s shirt is now buttoned, and his suspenders slung over his shoulders. He looks almost casual, though his clothes are certainly higher quality than anything Yuuri could ever hope to own.

Instead, he sits back on his heels and bows his head, reaching down towards Victor’s untied shoelaces.

“Yuuri—what—you don’t have to,” Victor starts, and Yuuri shushes him. His fingers work deftly at the laces, and in no time at all both of Victor’s shoes are tied as comfortably as he can manage without wearing the shoes himself. He looks up at Victor, and there’s something tense and awed between them that Yuuri can’t quite name.

“I want to,” he says, and this time when he tugs Victor into a kiss, Victor nearly over-balances. He puts out a hand to steady himself on Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri tugs him closer, closer, until Victor is practically straddling his lap.

Victor kisses like a man drowning, Yuuri learns, in the long minutes spent on the floor of the suite. He kisses like he has nothing to lose and everything to learn, like he’s been starved for affection for so long that he would rather overdose than live without it for another second. Yuuri is all too willing to indulge, and it’s hard to believe that they’re going to have to break apart soon—that he’s going to have to let Victor go. Victor, who slides his hands under the collar of Yuuri’s shirt and moans like he’s begging for something he never even knew he wanted, pressing the sweetest of noises into Yuuri’s mouth, and it’s heavy and warm and _growing_ and—

There are steps outside the door of the suite, and Yuuri breaks away with a panicked hiss.

“Master Nikiforov,” a voice calls, and Victor’s eyes widen. With a sharp movement he reaches out to shut the safe door and spins the dial, and a split second later he’s hauling Yuuri to his feet, a whispered warning all Yuuri gets before Victor is dragging him into the adjacent room.

The door to the sitting room opens a split second later, and Yuuri can feel his heart pounding in his chest, anxiety suddenly ratcheting up to ten as Victor’s fingers tighten around his hand. For a long moment, nothing seems to move, and then heavy footsteps start making their way towards the room Victor and Yuuri are hiding in, and Victor tenses beside him before whispering: “Run.”

It’s mostly instinct; Yuuri can do nothing but follow blindly as Victor pushes the two of them out of the door and back into the hallway outside of the suite, seconds before the door behind them bangs open. Yuuri catches the briefest glimpse of Mr. Nikiforov’s valet, standing in the doorway with a terrifying scowl on his face.

It’s—God, it’s _terrifying_ , and not in the way that drawing Victor had been; fleeing from Victor’s father’s valet sets his heart pounding with all-too-familiar panic. Yuuri vividly recalls the way the man had towered above him outside of the chapel, the vague twitch of his hand towards the breast of his coat where Yuuri thinks—perhaps—he might keep a gun. Victor’s hand is like a vice around his own as he tugs Yuuri down the hallway, and all Yuuri can do is follow despite his abandoned sketchbook, despite his desperate desire to keep the slow, languid atmosphere that had so lent itself to the soft kisses of before.

Yuuri reaches up dazedly, presses his fingers against his kiss-swollen lips, and almost trips over his own two feet.

“Yuuri!” Victor urges, and pulls them directly into the path of an older-looking first class couple. His body lurches away in a movement somehow both frantic and graceful, and he tugs Yuuri helplessly with him. When Yuuri manages to catch his breath, Victor is _laughing_ bright and heady and exhilarated, and Yuuri cannot help the smile that tugs at his own lips.

“Wait!” Yuuri doesn’t know what Victor is calling to until Victor bodily tugs him into the elevator, crammed in next to three other disgruntled-looking passengers, and his body collapses against the rich wood if the interior, shaking with helpless bouts of panicked laughter. Victor shuts the gate behind them, heedless of the protests of the steward, and less than five seconds later the valet slams into the gilded grating, his hands curling around the bars so forcefully that Yuuri is instantly grateful that they aren’t wrapped around his _neck_.

“Down,” he gasps out, and though the steward glances at him incredulously and a little disdainfully, a single nod from Victor sends the elevator lurching downward. Victor slumps next to Yuuri, hair falling into his face as he trembles through laughter, and just before the elevator disappears from sight, he holds up a single, defiant finger at his father’s valet before collapsing into Yuuri’s side, overcome by the laughter that refuses to leave them both.

“He’s going to follow us,” Victor manages, and all Yuuri can do is shake his head in exhausted wonder—his pulse is going a mile a minute, he doesn’t think he can _take_ much more of this. Panic is tugging at the corners of his vision, making everything go dark, but then Victor’s hand clenches tight around his and Yuuri blinks over at him, at the flush high on Victor’s cheeks and the sweat beginning to bead his brow.

“How’s your stamina?” Yuuri manages to gasp out, through his grin, and something lights up in Victor’s eyes.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Victor drags him out of the elevator at the F Deck, long after everyone else has stepped off, and the steward seems glad to be rid of them. They walk for a moment, trying to get themselves back under control, before making eye contact once again and bursting into helpless laughter. Yuuri feels drunk on this, drunk on whatever it is that Victor has turned into in the last hours, and he isn’t sure if he’s ever going to be able to give this up.

“He’s tough for a valet,” Yuuri finally manages, bracing himself against a wall, and Victor glances around carelessly before pressing himself closer, their faces inches apart. Yuuri’s chest is heaving; he hardly wants to believe that this is real. “You—you’d think he was a cop, or something.”

“I think he was,” Victor hums, and he seems almost seconds away from kissing Yuuri in the middle of the hallway, in _plain sight_ , before something catches at the corner of his vision and he turns away, eyes widening. “Oh, fuck. _Run_.”

And then they’re off again, and Victor isn’t holding Yuuri’s hand but it’s okay because now it feels like they’re moving in sync, with the same footsteps almost, and Yuuri feels giddy with it, like champagne bubbles bursting in his chest.

They scramble through several corridors until they come to a dead end, and Yuuri’s stomach twists in a sick kind of fear before Victor tugs at one of the doors and it opens—they throw themselves inside without a second thought, and Yuuri bolts it behind him, sagging against the wood in relief.

“What now?” He asks, and Victor looks up with a thrilled, defiant look in his eye, and Yuuri thinks that something has turned Victor _wild_ . Victor points down at a hatch in the floor, leading down into _warm_ and _bright_ and _loud_ , and Yuuri wonders if Victor Nikiforov is ever going to stop surprising him.

“This is a bad idea,” Yuuri says, but when Victor holds out a hand and steps down onto the ladder, Yuuri can’t make himself say no.

The engine room is cavernous and terrifying, and each step Yuuri takes into it feels wrong, like trespassing. But Victor isn’t stopping, and he’s more terrified of the wrath of Victor’s father and the ship’s officers than he is of the men working to fuel the engines, and so he follows with Victor’s hand looped easily around his wrist until they’re somewhere Yuuri has never been before, deserted and mercifully cool.

The hallways are winding, and Yuuri has to strap down panic at the thought of trying to find their way out of this. Victor doesn’t seem too bothered, his hair strewn across his flushed face, and his breaths just beginning to even out when he tugs Yuuri close again, his back pressed up against one of the cool walls.

“Yuuri,” Victor mumbles against his lips, and Yuuri tries _so hard_ to pull away without kissing him. He doesn’t manage, and whatever Victor was going to say next gets lost in the slow press of lips. They’re both still sort of gasping for breath; Yuuri can’t hold the kiss for long, but the brief seconds are worth it for the soft look of adoration on Victor’s face when he pulls away.

“Yuuri,” Victor repeats, and for a long moment Yuuri is just content to be there, in Victor’s arms, their faces inches apart. And then Victor’s smile turns mischievous, and Yuuri is struck once again at how different he seems now; it is like posing for Yuuri had set something loose in him that Victor is only now able to indulge. “Where are we?”

And, for some reason, this sets Yuuri laughing again, until he pitches forward and has to muffle it in Victor’s shoulder. He can feel more than hear Victor laughing along with him; the vibrations rock through Yuuri’s chest and set something warm fluttering in his belly.

“I have no idea,” Yuuri finally admits, and the thought really should trouble him more than it does. He thinks that it would, under any other circumstances, with anyone but Victor pressed flush against him and laughing. He looks up again, and Victor is staring down with something in his eyes Yuuri can only describe as _fond_.

“Well then, Yuuri Katsuki,” Victor says, his lips curling up into the most beautiful smile Yuuri has ever seen in his _life_ ; “Let’s have an adventure.”

* * *

 

Running through the corridors of Titanic was one of the most exhilarating moments of Victor’s life; even despite the danger of it all, Victor had found himself inexplicably laughing. He hasn’t run like that since he was a young child—since his parents had strapped him into fancy clothing and sat him down at dinner parties and warned him not to ruin his clothes and, by default, their reputation. Victor had been allowed very little freedom past the age of nine; his parents had considered even the simple, childlike pleasure of running too _juvenile_ for a soon-to-be gentlemen. Even at that young age.

He feels light-headed; drunk on this wild, electric feeling that has been thrumming in his veins since they had ducked behind the lifeboats, and _kissed._ His lips are still warm and kiss-swollen, but from their second kiss; their third; their _fourth,_ and Victor can hardly believe—

Yuuri’s fingers are laced through his own as Victor tries another door in the corridor, only to find this one locked too. Victor is still breathless and alive from the run—and the kissing—but beside him, Yuuri is starting to get a little agitated; mumbling things about getting _caught,_ and yet Victor can’t find it in himself to care about getting caught.

Victor tries another door handle and finds that this time, the door opens. He grins, and glances back at Yuuri before dragging him inside, ignoring Yuuri’s protest of _‘Victor, maybe we should go back’—_ he knows it is half-hearted; he can hear the laughter lacing Yuuri’s voice. The room they end up in is probably large enough to take up a good proportion of the ship’s belly, before Victor remembers how _huge_ the boat is, and dismisses the assumption. What he does know, though, is that the room is cold, only a thick layer of iron separating it from the icy Atlantic water, and yet—and yet Victor barely feels it; warmed by this insane, exhilarated wildfire that burns through him.

It’s the ship’s storage room, he notes; filled with a labyrinth of wooden crates containing passenger's belongings that were too large or too unnecessary to keep in their rooms. Beside him, he hears Yuuri’s soft intake of breath, and Yuuri must see something he doesn’t—because, this time, it’s Yuuri dragging him forward, weaving through the gaps between crates.

“Oh, wow,” Yuuri breathes when they emerge from between two crates and into an open space that is filled only by a sleek, expensive black car. It must belong to one of the first class passengers, of course, and it is nothing particularly extraordinary to Victor. It looks just like the cars he travels in almost every day, and yet Yuuri is blinking from behind his glasses as if laying eyes on something _rare._

Victor grins, tugging on Yuuri’s hand and pulling him closer to the car. He sees the hesitation in Yuuri’s eyes; the reluctance to touch something that does not belong to him, and it sets off a sudden burst of fondness in Victor’s chest. “Come on. It’s okay.” Victor says softly, and Yuuri lets go of his hand in favour of half-circling the car.

Yuuri brushes his fingers over the leather of the front seat, lost in some private moment, and Victor take a few steps closer to the door of the car. He has been in cars like this more times than he can count, and yet with Yuuri everything feels— _different._ New, and exhilarating, and _fun_ , and Victor lifts his chin, and pointedly clears his throat. It gets Yuuri’s attention. Victor raises an eyebrow, and tilts his chin towards the car door, feigning his most pompous expression, and Yuuri lets out a laugh.

“Oh, _right,_ ” Yuuri says, and there is something bright in his eyes that Victor thinks he might be the cause of. That thought alone makes Victor feel irrevocably happy. Yuuri plays along, and opens the car door for Victor, before faking his own over-exaggerated, upper-class accent. “Sir.”

“Thank you,” Victor nods and carefully steps into the car, sitting down in the backseat. The interior of the car is just as indulgent and expensive as any other car Victor has been in, and Victor notices the small arrangements of roses in glass vases held up near the ceiling. It sets alight a strange feeling in Victor’s chest; nerves, and anticipation, and something else he can’t place.

Yuuri climbs into the front seat, sitting behind the steering wheel, and now suddenly seems caught up in Victor’s wild game too. He watches as Yuuri presses the flat of his hand against the horn in the center of the steering wheel, and the noise echoes around the cavernous room, out of place in the silence. Yuuri laughs then, as if in disbelief at his own daring; that he is touching something rich, and expensive, and _not his._ Victor laughs too, and slides back the glass panel that separates them.

“Yuuri,” Victor says with his lips close to Yuuri’s ear, but Yuuri doesn't seem finished with this game.

“Where to, Sir?” Yuuri asks, playful amusement in his voice. Victor studies his profile; the giddy look in his eyes, the flush on his cheekbones—Victor swallows, and runs his lips across Yuuri’s ear.

“To the stars,” Victor murmurs, lips pressed to Yuuri’s ear. He feels the words travel through Yuuri; his laughter trailing off a little, and then suddenly Victor needs Yuuri back here with him—needs his presence next to him. Victor hooks his arms under Yuuri’s underarms, fuelled again by the wild giddiness that has been the sole driving force behind most of tonight, and tugs him backwards. Yuuri yelps, calling out Victor’s name helplessly as he tries—rather ungracefully—to pull Yuuri through the small window separating them.

“ _Victor,_ wh—” Yuuri cries, breaking into helpless laughter as Victor manages to get him into the backseat. It’s probably the least graceful, and least romantic thing Victor has ever done, and yet when Yuuri finds his seat next to him, his eyes are dark, fixed on Victor’s own. That uninhibited, bright feeling in his chest seems to quell a little, turning into something else entirely, as he looks down at Yuuri beside him, both of their bodies half-turned to face each other.

Yuuri’s skin is flushed, ever so slightly damp from sweat caused by the exertion of running in the way they had, and his breathing is shallower than usual. In the low lighting of the car, Yuuri’s eyes look dark; their colour indiscernible, and Victor draws in a slow, long breath. _God,_ he looks—his hair is messy and pushed back, and Victor reaches for his hand, and slides their fingers together. Even that simple act seems to draw a shaky breath from Yuuri’s lips, and Victor’s eyes are drawn down to them as if on instinct.  

For a moment, looking feels like kissing; caught in Yuuri’s dark gaze, with their fingers sliding together and their breaths meeting in the space between them. It feels as if they might kiss for the first time, which doesn’t make any sense, and yet—

Victor wonders if it’s some silly, fantastical thing to imagine what might happen next; to dare to—but Victor knows what he wants, and with the low lighting of the car, and the tension thrumming in his veins, Victor thinks it is _perfect._ He knows it has been building between them since their kiss on the deck, since he had taken his clothes off and let Yuuri draw him, and then, in every kiss since then; stolen away and pressed up against the walls of the corridors, or kneeling on the floor of Victor’s suite. He wonders if Yuuri can feel it too.

“Are you nervous?” Victor asks, the words whispered; careful not to break this delicate moment between them.

Yuuri’s eyes shine with something behind his glasses. He sees the shift in Yuuri’s throat as he swallows, and then nods ever so slightly. “Yes.”

Victor exhales a soft breath. “Me too,” he breathes. That admission alone seems to change something in Yuuri; as if he hadn’t expected Victor to be nervous. Maybe he doesn’t expect Victor to be scared of anything.

Victor’s hand shakes as he brings Yuuri’s fingers up to his lips, forcing himself to remember that this is _safe;_ that he’s safe here, that they’re alone—he’s _allowed_ this. He presses the soft pads of Yuuri’s fingertips to his lips, one by one, kissing the tips of his fingers, and flickering his eyes up to meet Yuuri’s through his lashes. He hears Yuuri’s soft inhale of breath, and parts his lips so that each of Yuuri’s fingers are ever so slightly wet when he pulls them back. Victor’s pulse thrums; fluttering under the the thin, fine skin of his neck, and something in Yuuri’s gaze sends an unchecked burst of heat down to his gut. Victor slides his fingers between Yuuri’s again, both of their breathing shallower than before, and holds Yuuri’s gaze.

“Put your hands on me, Yuuri,” Victor breathes, guiding Yuuri’s hand to the place just below his sternum, close enough to his chest that Yuuri will probably be able to feel the rabbit-fast beat of his heart. Yuuri swallows, exhaling a breath, and Victor drags Yuuri’s hand down, slowly, to the curve of his waist.

He doesn’t need to say anything else then, because Yuuri kisses him, and his fingers curl around Victor’s waist. He gasps into Yuuri’s mouth; a soft, helpless noise when their lips meet. Yuuri tugs him closer almost instinctively, and Victor lets out another soft noise; almost as if, having been denied this for so long, this simple act is too much for Victor to process.

Their mouths slide together; slower and more deliberate than all the times before, unhurried now they know they have longer—that they can kiss in this slow, delicate, hot way for a long stretch of time. Which, Victor knows, does not make sense since there is a valet and—probably—a team of stewards looking for them by now. Victor doesn’t care. His fingers curl around the edge of Yuuri’s collar, slipping underneath it, and he can feel the fluttering of Yuuri’s own pulse, wild and tremulous against his fingertips. He lets out a gentle noise, and opens his mouth beneath Yuuri’s. Their kisses are all slow and opened mouthed then; and Victor drinks in every ounce of it like he’s _drowning_ —each slide of Yuuri’s lips whiting out more and more of Victor’s thoughts, until he’s lost in this—until it feels like there’s no one else but them, and this car.

Victor never thought he’d have this; never dreamed he’d be _allowed_ this, and the thought burns something wild and unrestricted in his chest. He slides his tongue against Yuuri’s; the first, sweet meeting of their tongues, and it pulls a surprised noise from Yuuri’s throat that sounds almost like a moan. Victor swallows it like he’s _dying_ for it; shifting back on the seat of the car and pulling Yuuri almost completely on top of him. It feels wild to be so forward like this; to be so uninhibited and uncensored about what he wants, but Yuuri has set alight a fire in him that doesn’t seem to be burning out. Yuuri doesn’t seem to be censoring himself now either; his hand untucking the edge of Victor’s shirt as he settles himself on top of him; their bodies cramped in the small space of the car.

Even despite this; Yuuri kisses with an edge of hesitance that Victor doesn’t quite understand, as if he’s testing the edges of Victor’s boundaries—seeing how far Victor will allow him to go. And so, with every hesitate move forward that Yuuri makes, Victor makes sure to meet him where he is.

“Yuuri,” Victor whispers against his lips when they break away, and Victor doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of saying Yuuri’s name. Yuuri’s fingertips are pushed under his shirt now, moving in delicate movements across the curve of his waist, and Victor shivers at the touch. Their breaths mingle in the space between them; hot and heavy, and Victor feels like he’s losing his mind. His arousal has been thrumming in his veins since the drawing; since he had undressed for Yuuri; and in the moments of the chase, it had turned into something—desire traded for adrenaline—and now, here, with Yuuri’s fingertips brushing patterns on his too-fine skin, and Yuuri’s lips only an inch from his own, his desire is back in full force; burning brighter and more desperate than before.

“I—” Victor breathes out, and for the first time, he finds himself lost for words. That, strangely, seems to tug laughter from Yuuri, and he presses his face against Victor’s neck, breath ghosting against Victor’s skin. Victor laughs softly too, his fingers reaching up to thread through Yuuri’s hair.

Yuuri’s lips press against Victor’s pulsepoint then, pressing a series of delicate, warm kisses against Victor’s skin. It’s— _more_ than Victor expects it to be; sending a shiver and a curl of warmth down his spine, and Victor tilts his head back to give Yuuri more access to the dip of his throat. He groans, a soft and unrestricted noise, and Yuuri makes a noise in return, pressed against the skin of Victor’s neck. Yuuri’s kisses turn open-mouthed, and Victor lets out a noise that he thinks might be a _whimper._ His eyes burn with what he thinks might be tears, and he presses them closed so that he doesn’t cry.

“Victor,” Yuuri whispers against his skin, and Victor feels himself melting, giving over every part of himself. Yuuri kisses a trail up his neck, across his jaw, before finding his lips again, and capturing them in a kiss that has Victor _lost._

“Please,” Victor hears himself saying, mumbled in the barely-there space between their lips as Yuuri kisses him, and Yuuri shifts to press the line of their bodies together; kissing Victor deeper, more unrestricted than he has before. Almost as if, having been granted permission, Yuuri is no longer holding himself back. Victor can feel the press of Yuuri’s arousal against his hipbone, and it drags a groan from his lips as he kisses Yuuri almost _desperately_ now, pushing his hips up.

Victor thinks he might be trembling already. No one has ever kissed him like this before, and that thought doesn’t really make sense. Before Yuuri, no one had ever kissed him at all. Yuuri’s fingers slide down the plane of his stomach, caressing at the edge of his belt, and Victor makes an unchecked noise into his mouth.

“Please—” Victor says, breaking off the kiss to pant against Yuuri’s lips “ _Please._ ”

Yuuri’s hands are trembling as much as Victor’s when he unfastens Victor’s belt, pulling away from their kissing to look down between them—giving this act of undressing him his full attention. His fingers are shaking, and there’s something dark and nervous in Yuuri’s eyes. Victor reaches down to still his hands, fingertips pressed to Yuuri’s pulsepoint, and he can feel the rapid flutter of his pulse.

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, trying to form words that are desperate pleas. “Are you—if you don’t want—”

“M’just—nervous,” Yuuri mumbles back, tilting his head up to capture Victor’s lips in a quick, chaste kiss and Victor is embarrassed to find himself chasing Yuuri’s lips. “I’ve never—”

Victor exhales, and closes his eyes. Technically, Victor _has—_ but it has never—it never felt like this, it was never—Victor hums, and opens his eyes. “Okay…”

Yuuri pulls Victor’s belt open then, as if proving a point of what he wants, and then his fingers are on the button if Victor’s trousers. Victor’s mind whites out then, and he forgets to be worried, because Yuuri’s fingers are pushing open the fastenings of his trousers, and carefully tugging his trousers down, just a little. Victor gasps, and tugs Yuuri back to him by his collar, pulling their mouths together like he can’t bear to be apart from him any longer.

Victor feels desperate now—as if he might die if he doesn’t—and he kisses back hungrily, drinking in everything that Yuuri gives him, chasing every moment so it might last just a little longer. He’s forgotten to check his mouth, in his delirious desperation, and he knows that he must be making small noises into Yuuri’s mouth with every slide of their lips together; every press of their tongues. Yuuri groans against his lips, reaching between them to press his palm to Victor’s cock, through his underwear, and Victor almost _sobs._

It sends a bolt of pleasure sparking down his spine, and Victor finds himself surprised at much he’d _needed—_ how desperately he’d wanted Yuuri to touch him. Yuuri grinds the palm of his hand against Victor then, and Victor loses himself in it; all his attention focused on the press of Yuuri’s hand. He feels dizzy; drunk on it, and he tilts his hips up into Yuuri’s touch. Even through the layer of his underwear, it feels startlingly good, and Victor wants to give himself over to it; wants to surrender to it until he’s— _God—_

“ _Victor,”_ Yuuri mumbles against his lips, and Victor can only offer a soft noise in response. Yuuri tries to settle between his thighs, but it’s awkward now that his trousers are half-pulled down, and so Victor lets out a desperate, frustrated noise.

“Take them off,” he grits out, and he’s only half-sure he said it in English. He must have, because Yuuri’s fingers are pulling down his trousers then, tugging off his shoes with them, and throwing them all aside onto the car floor, until Victor is in nothing but his white dress shirt, and his underwear. For the second time tonight, Victor finds himself in quite a state of undress, while Yuuri remains painfully clothed.

 _God,_ Victor’s mind is in overdrive; intoxicated by the reality that this is—that this is going to happen, and Victor has never dreamed he would be allowed something like this. He had always thought—had always imagined he would spend his life engaging in hurried, impersonal encounters with men in society bathrooms—hot and vulgar and dirty. He had never imagined—that it could be like this; soft and vulnerable, delicate and intimate. Victor tugs Yuuri back to him, and slots their mouths together, kissing him slowly and deliberately, and he feels Yuuri melt above him. His fingers work on the buttons of Yuuri’s shirt, and they’re far looser and easier to unfasten than the buttons of Victor’s own shirt. The fabric yields under his touch, and Victor manages to push it off Yuuri’s shoulders effortlessly; exposing the skin beneath.

Victor lets out a soft noise, brushing his hands down the planes of Yuuri’s chest. Yuuri’s skin is darker than his own, and far less pristine than Victor’s—across his body, Victor can feel the raised marks of what he thinks are scars; probably from years of labour work that Victor has never had to participate in. All of it is a startling reminder of everything there is between them, but Victor doesn’t think it matters, especially not now—all that matters is this one, perfect, beautiful thing that they share.

He reaches up to find Yuuri’s mouth again, and Yuuri pushes him back down against the leather; as if tapping into some secret, hidden confidence that Victor has never seen before; except, perhaps, the glimpses of it he caught when Yuuri had drawn him, or when Yuuri’s hands had touched him the night of the party. Victor shudders, and his words come out as barely a whisper in the space between them; “Touch me, Yuuri. Please.”

Yuuri reaches down between them for the second time and pushes Victor’s underwear down, exposing the length of his cock, curved and hot against his abdomen. Victor whimpers, and Yuuri dips his head to capture the noise; drinking it in. Yuuri’s hand wraps around his cock, then, and Victor has to break away from the kiss to tilt his head back, and moan.

“ _Yuuri,”_ Victor breathes out before he can stop himself, and Yuuri’s hand starts to work over him; sliding up and down his length in a hot, perfect rhythm. Victor feels lost in it; dizzy—he’s been touched before, but never like this; Yuuri touches him like he’s the most perfect, delicate thing he’s ever laid hands on, and it breaks Victor apart at the seams. Yuuri brings his hand up and licks it, before returning to his previous ministrations—and the sight is so primal and unrestricted, as if Yuuri has forgotten he is supposed to be nervous, and it drives Victor _wild._

Victor chases Yuuri’s lips then; kissing him desperately, their mouths moving in hot, fractured rhythms, both too caught up in the act of what they are doing to bother caring about the finesse of kissing. Yuuri’s thumb swipes across the head of his cock, and Victor whimpers into his throat, feeling himself lost in this perfect, impossible oblivion. He knows he’s trembling; his whole body clammy with sweat as he edges closer to—Yuuri speeds up his hand, and swipes his thumb across the slit again.

Victor pants, their lips ghosting together, and chokes out a plea, unchecked, in Russian. Yuuri lets out a noise against his lips that Victor thinks he might have intended to be a laugh, but it comes out like a moan; like the most helpless, debauched noise Victor has ever heard. Victor _groans,_ and pushes into Yuuri’s hand. And _God,_ he’s aching with it now; with this almost unbearable, overwhelming burn of pleasure that runs through his body, and leaves him _trembling._

“Yuuri,” Victor mumbles, again, and it’s the most unrestricted he’s ever been in his life. “Yuuri, I think—I think I might— _please—_ ”

“ _Come,_ ” Yuuri chokes out against his lips, groaning at his own words. “ _God,_ Victor, come—”

Yuuri’s lips find Victor’s, and Victor can do nothing else other than do as he was bid in Yuuri’s fractured voice. He threads his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, arches his back, and _comes._

It’s overwhelming, and—god, Victor lets out a string of soft, helpless noises into Yuuri’s mouth. It’s more than Victor ever imagined he’d—and he feels the hot, burn of tears push to the surface. This time, Victor is too caught up in _this_ to stop himself; and he chokes out a sob, trembling against Yuuri’s body as he comes.

Yuuri’s hand slows down as Victor’s whimpers subside ever so slightly, and pulls back just a little to look at Victor. With a helpless noise, Victor opens his eyes, and feels the hot tracks of tears that are running down his temples, and dampening his hair. Yuuri seems surprised, even through layers of his own arousal, and reaches a hand up to brush away one of Victor’s tears.

“ _Victor,”_ Yuuri breathes, and his voice is thick and shaking. “You’re _crying._ ”

“I—” Victor exhales, trembling against him. “I’ll—be okay—”

Victor curls his fingers around the back of Yuuri’s neck, and pulls him down so that their foreheads are pressed together. He closes his eyes, breathing out shakily and irregularly between them, and—it happens without him really meaning for it too; it’s all so _overwhelming,_ and suddenly Victor is _crying;_ slow, shaky sobs that have him trembling against Yuuri.

“ _God,_ Victor…” Yuuri chokes out, voice soft, and captures his lips; kissing him once, twice, three times, and Victor can do nothing but shake against him. “Are you—okay? Was it—”

Victor shakes his head and, impossibly, he _laughs._ “God, no, it—it was perfect—you—you were _perfect—_ ”

Yuuri thumbs away his tears, caressing his fingers across Victor’s cheek, and his hand tucks a strand of Victor’s sweat-slick hair behind his ear. Victor stares up at him, breath trembling, and exhales softly. “Kiss me.”

“Victor—”

“ _Kiss me,_ ” Victor says again, his voice just a whisper, and Yuuri _does._ Their mouths slide together; slowly and deliberately at first—kissing in such a way that has Victor _soaring;_ freedom flickering in his chest in that same way it had when Yuuri had held him on the railings, and Victor had felt as if he were flying above the Atlantic, only this time it’s far more intoxicating, far more—their tongues meet, and Victor feels the desperation burning through Yuuri; the way that Yuuri is _trembling_ as he holds himself up above Victor.

Victor shifts his hips so that they’re pressed together; even through the layers of Yuuri’s slacks, and underwear, and Yuuri lets out a groan. It makes Victor feel dizzy; an aftershock of pleasure working its way through him at the sound.

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, pulling Yuuri’s hand up and kissing his palm, then the inside of his wrist, guiding Yuuri’s hand up to his hair, and letting Yuuri’s fingers slide through it. “Please—I want you to—come, _please?_ ”

Yuuri gasps, kissing Victor again as his fingers curl into Victor’s hair. With his free hand, Yuuri reaches down between them and unfastens his slacks, pushing them down with his underwear; the movements hurried and desperate and shaky—nothing like the sure, steady way Yuuri’s pencil had moved across his paper. Yuuri seems unable to hold back, then, thrusting against Victor’s thighs, and moaning helplessly. Victor opens beneath him, giving him access to this; rutting against him with choked off moans, and Yuuri’s kisses are unrestricted and wet. Victor whimpers; his own pleasure peaking again, even though there is no way he could come again so soon after, and his hand finds Yuuri’s, slotting their palms together. Yuuri’s fingers slide through his, gripping onto him as if Victor is saving him from drowning, and presses Victor’s hand into the leather seat as he thrusts against his thighs.

It hits Victor then that Yuuri is going to come like this; their lips moving together; palms fitted against one another; and Yuuri thrusting against his thighs. It sends an intense burst of heat through him that almost feels like coming again; and Victor whimpers from it—it’s never been like this; never so intimate and personal, and Victor thinks he might cry again as Yuuri gasps above him. Yuuri kisses him like he’s drowning; as if kissing were some key, intrinsic part of this whole thing, and Victor has never felt anything like it.

Victor rearranges his limbs, giving Yuuri better access to rut against him, and Yuuri _whimpers;_ breaking away from their kiss to mumble out a hurried, broken: “Victor, I’m going to—”

Victor groans. “Yes,” he breathes, chasing Yuuri’s lips. He feels dizzy from it—fuck, _fuck—_ Yuuri is going to _come—_ ”Yes, _please—_ ”

Yuuri thrusts a few more times, lips ghosting against Victor’s _—_ too caught up to indulge in kissing properly _—_ and then Yuuri is coming, tense and trembling above him, hot stripes spilling across Victor’s bare stomach; where his shirt has been pushed up to his chest, and Victor groans, almost reaching his own, second climax simply from the feeling. Yuuri sounds _—god,_ he sounds beautiful when he comes; a litany falling from his lips that is half moans, and half broken, fractured versions of Victor’s name.

Victor caresses his free hand through Yuuri’s sweat-damp hair, pushing some of it back, and kissing Yuuri once, sweetly, on the mouth. Yuuri is trembling above him, dragging in shallow and ragged breaths, littered with moans, and Victor kisses him again _—_ deeper this time.

“God, Victor,” Yuuri manages when he pulls away, his voice shaky. Victor pulls back and smiles, and that’s when he notices that Yuuri’s glasses are steamed up. Victor laughs, shakily, carefully detaching his hand from Yuuri’s, and reaching up to slide them off the sweat-slick bridge of his nose. “Wh _—Victor._ ”

“They were all steamy,” Victor whispers, leaning up to kiss him again. “I wanted to _—_ see you.”

Yuuri studies him with a dark gaze; rawer now that his glasses have been removed, and Victor’s breath catches in his throat. He has no idea what Yuuri is thinking, but he thinks he could lose himself in this moment forever. Yuuri shifts, resting his head on Victor’s chest, and Victor’s fingers slide through Yuuri’s hair, closing his eyes. They let a silence fall between them, their breathing rising and falling in tandem, and Yuuri finds Victor’s hand and threads their fingers together; sliding their fingers between each other’s.

They stay like this for long enough that Victor thinks he could fall asleep, if he weren’t so hyper aware of the alien nature of their surroundings; the cold storage room beyond the steamy windows. He caresses Yuuri’s hair, twirling it through his fingers, and in turn, Yuuri dances his fingers between Victor’s.

Then, suddenly, echoing in the hallway beyond, Victor hears _voices._

“I think they, uh, ran down here,” Victor hears someone say, with a thick London accent, and Yuuri and Victor break apart as if shocked by a bolt of electricity. Yuuri’s eyes are wide with panic and Victor shoves his glasses back into Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri slips them on, and Victor uses his hand to quickly clean himself off, wiping his hand on the leather seat.

“Come on,” Victor mumbles. “We have to go.”

It feels awful to break up this beautiful, delicate moment, but there is no way they can stay _—_ not unless they want to die like this. For a moment, Victor contemplates if that would really be so bad. Victor hurries to redress, tugging his shirt down and fumbling into his slacks. They’re sloppier dressed than they were before, but it hardly matters now, and Yuuri reaches for the car door.

“Wait,” Victor breathes, and _—_ insanely _—_ Yuuri stops. Victor edges closer, pressing their lips together in another quick, hurried kiss, and Yuuri pulls away with a breath of disbelief. Victor thinks he might be losing he mind, but he doesn’t quite care. Yuuri swings the door open and they hurry out of it, not bothering to close it behind them.

Across the storage room, Victor hears the door open, and he reaches for Yuuri’s hand, lacing their fingers together as he drags him through the labyrinth of wooden crates, carefully avoiding the sight of the stewards as they make their way through the room. Victor stops, his back against one of the crates, and he turns to look at Yuuri with a wide grin; despite the fear beating a fast rhythm in his chest. Yuuri’s eyes are wide with terror, but Victor feels untouchable; like he’s _flying—_ and he pulls Yuuri’s hand up to his lips, and kisses it, once.

“You ready?” Victor whispers, and he can see the open door that leads out of the storage room. Yuuri lets out a breath of terrified laughter, and shakes his head. “Come on.”

And then they’re running again, as silently as they can, hand in hand, towards the open door, and out into the depths of the ship.

* * *

 

Yuuri steps out onto the deck of the ship, and the night air hits his lungs like ice water. After so long spent in the belly of the ship, breathing in Victor’s air, he had almost forgotten what it was like to breathe freely again. The night is clear and beautiful; he can see each and every star, point out half-remembered constellations he had learned from strangers on labor jobs, but Yuuri can’t bring himself to look away from the clear blue of Victor’s eyes for longer than a few moments.

Part of him still can’t believe that this night has been real, that _Victor_ is real. Despite the physical evidence—flushed cheeks, Victor’s mussed hair, the skipped button on Yuuri’s shirt—it all still feels like a beautiful, intense, and achingly erotic dream.

Out on the deck they can’t kiss anymore and Yuuri knows it, but it doesn’t stop the soft ache in his chest when Victor starts maintaining a respectable distance, something more appropriate to their stations. But the deck is almost empty, and despite the sharp flare of nerves in his chest, Yuuri edges closer.

“Victor,” he says softly, without anything to follow it. Victor blinks down at him, and there’s something almost distant in his eyes; contemplative. For a moment, Yuuri is terrified that Victor is going to push him away. And then Victor’s hand folds over his, close enough between their bodies to be difficult to see, and a smile lights up his face that makes Yuuri melt all over again.

He can barely believe that, not an hour ago, Victor had been crying into his shoulder, come-stained and radiant.

“Hello, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs, and his voice is still throaty and raw. Yuuri vividly remembers the noises he had made, to put his voice in such a state, and wills himself not to flush in public, despite the absence of people. Victor’s thumb brushes against Yuuri’s, and it’s enough to make him relax fractionally, settling back into the familiar comfort of his skin.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Yuuri says. He means the words to come out teasing, maybe tinged with laughter, but instead he sounds almost thoughtful. It sends a spike of melancholy through him, and for the first time in _hours_ Yuuri remembers that they are inevitably going to get caught, and Victor is going to be dragged away from him again to face the wrath of his father, and Yuuri thinks for a blinding second that it is going to break at least one of them.

Victor’s brow creases, and Yuuri feels the ridiculous urge to reach up with his thumb and smooth away the lines there. _Don’t worry_ , he wants to say, but the words won’t come.

“Yuuri,” Victor repeats, a little more insistent this time, and Yuuri listens. Something decisive settles over Victor’s shoulders, straightening his spine and flashing in his eyes. Yuuri recognizes this; this is the Victor he had seen moments before dropping the dressing gown, before reaching for Yuuri’s hand and placing it on his skin in the backseat of that car. This is Victor on the precipice of _decision_ , and Yuuri cannot guess at what is going to come next.

“When the boat docks, I’m getting off with you.”

The words hang between them, thick and heavy, and for a moment Yuuri simply blinks at him in the dim light of evening, broken by the constant illumination of the grand ship. And then the statement hits him, and sinks in, and Yuuri has to fight the instinct to recoil, sharp and sudden.

“What?” Yuuri finally manages, and watches Victor’s face fall, infinitesimally. It _hurts_ , and Yuuri wants to reach out and reassure Victor that he doesn’t mean it, but he _can’t_ —

“I said—” Victor starts, and Yuuri cuts him off, something fluttering wildly in his chest that feels a little like hope and a little like anguish.

“Victor, you _can’t_ ,” Yuuri says, and it cuts between them like a knife. “This is—you have a _life_ , and I—Victor, I don’t have anything—”

“I don’t care.” Victor sounds almost desperate, now, and he still hasn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand, and Yuuri can feel his heart starting to splinter because he _wants_ it, he wants it _so much_ , but the thought of doing that to Victor makes his stomach turn in some awful kind of self-loathing.

“You can’t,” Yuuri repeats, and Victor’s hand spasms around his, and something awful happens to his expression, and suddenly Yuuri can’t _breathe._

“I want to,” Victor says. His voice is tremulous, but there’s an undercurrent of something as taut as a steel wire, as strong as the rigid column of his spine. “I thought—you understood. Yuuri, you’re the first choice I’ve ever made. I _want_ to be—I want this, whatever you can give me, and if it’s nothing I’ll take it because that’s what I’m _choosing_ —Yuuri, I’m choosing _you_.”

Yuuri closes his eyes. The night pricks chills against his skin, and he thinks briefly of standing at the front of the _Titanic_ with his hands on Victor’s waist, their feet hooked carefully around the rails, and he thinks of Victor clinging to the wrong end of the railing two days ago and—

“It’s your choice,” Yuuri says, and Victor makes a small noise low in his throat that Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever going to forget. “I just—Victor, I don’t want you to make the wrong one.”

Victor’s hand reaches out and then they’re standing, hands linked, and Yuuri can hardly breathe with how stunning Victor looks backlit by the light of the ship. He looks—not sad, but contemplative, as if for the first time Victor is imagining a future that he has chosen for _himself_ , and it breaks Yuuri’s heart.

“You could never be the wrong choice,” Victor says, and for a blinding minute, everything is okay. Yuuri’s pulse is rabbit-fast against the paper-thin skin of his wrist, and Victor is holding his hands on the deck like they have nothing to be afraid of, and Yuuri lets himself picture a future with him and Victor in New York, making a life out of the nothing they had started with. Victor opens his mouth again, and Yuuri _wants_ to hear what he says next. “Yuuri, I—”

And then, with the sickening shriek of steel grinding, everything falls apart.

The ship shudders, and Yuuri pitches forward into Victor’s chest, and as the two of them struggle to stop from toppling onto the deck, Yuuri sees something hulking in the corner of his vision. Once he’s regained his footing he turns, and sees clearly the form of an iceberg, floating past the ship in the eerily calm water. A few paces down the deck, chunks of ice have split off from the berg, and are now melting on the wooden planks. Yuuri’s hand tightens around Victor’s, and the iceberg floats past the ship as silently and as terribly as it had approached.

The ship groans, almost imperceptibly, beneath them, and something dark settles itself in the pit of Yuuri’s stomach.

Suddenly, in the space of a few breaths, the fragile fantasy Yuuri had let himself indulge shatters like a glass ornament, sending shards glittering over the ground like ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can follow us on twitter and tumblr  
> alex ([twitter](http://www.twitter.com/laurxnts) / [tumblr](http://casxade.tumblr.com)) | emma ([twitter](http://www.twitter.com/verelesbians) / [tumblr](http://jvstens.co.vu/laurxnts))  
> and you can follow the board on pinterest for this fic [here](https://uk.pinterest.com/laurxnts/the-ship-of-dreams/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, has it really been eight weeks? We're so sorry for the delay on this one... time is a social construct anyway it feels like only a couple of weeks for us! We are really sorry; we're both students and it's That Time of the academic year so you know what that can be like... We promise the next update won't be this long at all! <3 We wanted to get this chapter out before the 14th April for obvious reasons.  
> We managed to post between the 10th April - 14th April slot, which makes this week 105 years since the real life titanic set sail and sank. Which is about the same time we last updated this fic.  
> Thank you to anyone still reading after all this time!

 

It all happens too fast for Victor to register at first; the sickly, shrieking sound of metal and Yuuri’s body colliding into his as the ship shudders beneath them. One moment Yuuri had been gazing at him, and Victor had been thinking about kissing him, even here on the open deck, and then—it’s as jarring as the sound of voices and footsteps had been in the corridor outside of Victor’s suite; outside of the seclusion of the car, except this time it’s a physical force, driving them apart. Victor turns to watch the iceberg drift past, scattering chunks across the deck, and Victor’s heart pounds urgently in his chest. 

He pulls Yuuri forward by their still connected hands and leans over the edge of the ship, carefully navigating through the chunks of ice. Beneath them, the water is calmer than Victor has ever seen it; a glass surface reflecting the sky, and to their right the iceberg is drifting past the rest of the ship. Victor leans further over to watch.

“What the fuck,” Victor breathes out, the air streaking white in front of him. “Did we—do you think it—”

He turns around to speak again, but Yuuri is staring out at the water and the ice with a sick, wide-eyed expression, his breathing shallow. It’s only then that Victor realises he’d spoken in Russian a moment ago, and he’s grateful for it. He hops down off the edge of the railing, and squeezes Yuuri’s hand, even despite his own frantic pulse.

“Hey,” he says in English, and Yuuri’s eyes dart to him. Victor forces on his best grin. “It’s going to be okay. It was just ice.”

Yuuri’s eyes shift back to the stretch of ocean, and Victor squeezes his hand again, bringing his other up to nudge Yuuri’s jawline, tilting his head back to Victor.

“It’s going to be okay,” Victor smiles. “I have dined with the ship’s architect more than once… he’s really boring, but this ship is indestructible. I’ve heard it first hand. Come on.”

Yuuri nods, slowly, and some of the tension seems to ease out of his eyes. Victor gives him a bright, albeit false, smile. The calamity caused by the iceberg means that the deck around them is starting to fill with people; passengers coming to inspect the deck, or play with the ice, or stewards coming to survey the damage, and—with a heavy reluctance—Victor lets his fingers slip out of Yuuri’s grip. It aches not to be touching him, even more so after the drawing and the car, but they can’t be  _ seen  _ like this. 

“Come on,” Victor says again, and leads the way towards the gate of the first class deck, away from the worst of the collision with the ice and the clusters of people emerging from the corridors. He takes the steps two at a time, Yuuri’s fingers tight around the cuff of Victor’s sleeve, like he might lose him in the crowds if he doesn’t hold on, but Victor’s glad for it—he likes knowing that Yuuri is directly behind him. 

Victor curves out of the way to avoid colliding with some stewards, accompanied by people Victor recognises; people Victor has dined with—the ship’s architect; the man who envisioned the project; the captain; and a few others who all seem to be chattering urgently about something. Victor hesitates, just for a moment, waiting for Yuuri to stumble up the last of the stairs. 

“We closed the bulkhead doors, but the mail hold is already underwater and—” Victor manages to hear one of them say as they pass. He freezes and Yuuri comes to a halt beside him, his fingers brushing very lightly against the skin of Victor’s wrist. Victor watches the group disappear into one of the captain’s rooms. Bulkheads? Distress signal? This is bad. A cold sliver of fear trickles down Victor’s spine. Yuuri’s breathing is a little laboured beside him, partly from the cold and the anxiety, and partly from the exertion of hurrying through crowds. 

“What is it?” Yuuri says, pressing into his side for a moment to avoid another curious group of passengers. “Did you hear what they were saying? I couldn’t make it out.”

Victor opens his mouth to respond, almost telling him the truth, but he turns to look at Yuuri and snaps his mouth shut. He forces himself into a bright, reassuring smile. “Yuuri, you don’t have to look so worried! They were just talking about how everything felt a lot worse than it was. We’re going to be fine.”

Victor strides off across the first class deck, letting Yuuri walk beside him, and breathes in lungfuls of cool, icy air. He thinks about the possibility of danger; that something bad might happen here, and—well, Victor can take care of Yuuri as best he can, but— _ Yuri.  _ Victor’s steps fumble; he’d been so caught up tonight in everything that had fallen between Yuuri and him that he had almost forgotten about his fifteen year old brother, and his fiance, and everything else that Victor had lost sight of in those intoxicating, dizzying few hours with Yuuri. Even his father and his mother; Victor’s feelings about them are rather convoluted, but he knows he owes them this. 

“We have to tell my family,” Victor says, uneasiness curling in his gut. It’s silly to go back, really, especially since he— _ what was he thinking? _ —he had put the drawing in his father’s safe. Well. It hardly matters; when the ship docks, Victor is getting off with Yuuri, and that’s that. He imagines his father finding the drawing and fear twists in his stomach. Fear, accompanied by something he cannot make sense of. He thinks it might be something like freedom; liberation. 

“About what?” Yuuri stares at him. “You said there was nothing to worry about.”

“Well. Just in case,” Victor grins at him, tugging on his wrist to pull him into the first class corridors. “Come on.”

“Victor,” Yuuri protests, tugging his wrist out of Victor’s grip. He turns to look at Yuuri, stopped dead in the corridor, eyes wide with fear. “I can’t go back to your family’s suite. It’s too dangerous, especially now.”

“Don’t worry,” Victor reassures softly, stepping into Yuuri’s space as close as he can without arousing suspicion. “You’re with me. Just stay by my side.”

“Victor, I—” 

“I won’t let them hurt you, Yuuri,” Victor says softly, and means it. He would never let his father lay hands on Yuuri. He’d rather die. “I promise. But my little brother—”

Something in Yuuri’s eyes shifts then; from fear to understanding, and Victor beams. Yuuri nods at him, resolute. “He’s only fifteen.”

Yuuri strides down the corridor then, heading in the direction of Victor’s suites, and Victor has to jog to catch up with him. Fear has settled like something permanent in his gut now; fear at what his father will say, fear at what is  _ happening _ —Beside them, one of the doors of another suite swings open, and Yuuri starts so violently that he almost stumbles into the opposite wall. There’s a steward a few paces behind them, and the woman who emerges from the room tries to grab the steward’s attention.

“Excuse me,” she calls out. “Why have we stopped? There was a shudder and everything just—stopped.”

The steward pushes past Yuuri as if he has not seen him, and carefully edges his way around Victor with an apology in order to reach the woman. Victor opens his mouth to protest in defence of Yuuri, but he knows he has to pick his battles. He bristles with annoyance nonetheless. 

“Not to worry, ma’am,” The steward says to her and Victor stares, his fingers still looped loosely around Yuuri’s wrist. “Just put your lifebelt on, for precaution, and go up to the deck. It’s just a standard procedure, nothing to worry about, if you just…”

The steward’s voice trails off as he ushers the passenger back into her room, closing the door behind the two of them. Lifebelts. Victor swallows around something lodged in his throat, and underneath his fingers he feels Yuuri’s pulse beating rabbit-fast; as fast as it had been thrumming when the lines of their bodies had been pressed together in those last moments. Victor tightens his grip, just a little.

“Lifebelts,” Yuuri echoes, something awful in his voice. “This is really bad, isn’t it?” 

“This ship is unsinkable,” Victor says, and even he knows that his voice is lacking some of its usual bright reassurance and enthusiasm. The words sound dead to his own ears; disbelieving, almost. 

“Victor, what if—” Yuuri’s voice is trembling.

“No, it’s okay, come on. Let’s just go and tell my family,” Victor cuts him off, a little sharper than intended, and tugs him back down the corridor. His own pulse is hammering in his ears and he decides he’s grateful that it is his fingers pressed into Yuuri’s pulse point and not the other way around. There are other stewards pushing down the corridor now, knocking on doors and letting themselves into first class suites. Victor ignores them; tries to ignore it all, and focuses on getting to the room. The walk seems to last forever, much longer than usual, until all the corridors start blending into one and Victor almost forgets the way. For the first time, it feels like a labyrinth; like the winding corridors they’d explored in the belly of the ship not two hours ago, except this time it is not excitement running through Victor’s veins. It’s fear.

They round the corner which Victor is sure leads to his suite, and he almost collides with—with his father’s valet. Victor stops in his tracks and resists the urge to let go of his grip on Yuuri’s wrist. He feels his own heartbeat skip up; feels Yuuri’s do the same under his fingertips. Father’s valet does not look—angry, per se, which doesn’t really make sense, but nothing much makes sense right now.

“Ah, there you are,” he says in his smoothest, saccharine tone. Victor bristles. “We’ve been looking for you. Your father is waiting for you.”

Victor swallows. “Yes. We need to talk to him.” 

“I’m sure,” the valet’s pressed smile sets ablaze the uneasiness already sparking in Victor’s gut, and he can do nothing but follow as he and Yuuri are ushered ahead of the valet and towards the suite, with the valet pressed up behind them as if he is herding them like cows towards a slaughterhouse. 

Victor pushes the door open of the suite. His father is in there. Mother too, and Mila is in there, and Yuri, and— _ god,  _ and officers? The master of arms is there; Victor recognises him from that night on the deck, the first night he and Yuuri met. Victor forces his feet through the door, and pulls Yuuri with him. 

“Father,” Victor says, trying to keep his voice steady. His father’s eyes fall on him, sharp and angry and—Victor has seen him look like this before. “There’s an emergency.”

“Yes, there is,” Father says, taking a few steady steps closer. “I have been robbed.”

* * *

 

 

The words cause a sort of stunned silence in Victor, and Yuuri carefully pulls his arm from Victor’s grip when he finds that Victor’s grip has slackened. Robbed? Maybe that’s why the room looks so… chaotic, Yuuri thinks. It looks nothing like it did last time Yuuri was here; everything then had been perfect and still and— _ beautiful.  _ Victor had been naked, and—Yuuri casts his eyes around the room; at the officers leafing through belongings behind Victor’s father. Being robbed is bad, Yuuri will agree, but surely there’s bigger things to worry about right now? Like the iceberg? 

He doesn’t understand first class passengers. He doesn’t really want to; in fact, he doesn’t want to be here at all. Victor is replying to his father, saying something about an emergency and the ship, but Yuuri can barely hear him over the beating of his own heart. His eyes fall to the side, to the Master at Arms (ah, yes, he remembers very vividly having a gun pointed at him last time he’d met this man) and—Yuuri’s heart almost stops. There’s papers in his hands. Drawings. 

_ His  _ drawings. His eyes flit to the safe that he knows is situated by the floor: it’s open; it’s contents strewn haphazardly across the floor as if they’d been searched. The drawing of Victor isn’t in there. It must be in the officer’s hands, or—Yuuri can barely think, then, about anything but the fact that they  _ know _ — _ they’ve seen it. _

That’s why the officers must be here. But, wait, he’d said  _ robbery?  _

“Two things went missing tonight,” Victor’s father says sharply, and Yuuri’s attention snaps back to him. “Now one has returned, and I am sure I know where to find the  _ other. _ ”

He ends the sentence with a long look at Yuuri, disgust evident in his expression. 

“Father, what are you talking a—” Victor starts. 

“Search him,” Mr. Nikiforov says loudly, to cut Victor off, and then two of the officers are grabbing Yuuri by the arms. Panic flares in Yuuri’s veins so badly that he can barely  _ breathe  _ as he’s tugged away from Victor and further towards the master at arms. God, fuck, this is it—he’s going to die, isn’t he? Fuck, fuck—what are they  _ searching him for?  _

“Let go of him!” Victor cries, trying to step forward, but another officer stands in his way as the master at arms roughly pulls off Yuuri’s coat. Yuuri doesn’t struggle. He should, really, but he doesn’t. Even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to move, but he knows better than to provoke them. He’s seen it happen before; other Asian men who’d gotten into arguments with authorities on labour jobs. He’s seen what happens to them. He yelps as they shove him towards the table, rooting through the pockets of his coat now they’ve stripped him of it. He rubs his arm, where they’d gripped him, and tries not to make a noise.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” The Master at Arms says coolly, pulling the long, jeweled chain of—a necklace—out of Yuuri’s pocket. Yuuri stares. He knows that necklace. He knows that blue diamond. He—His breath catches in his throat. No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. He didn’t—

“ _ What? _ ” Victor and Yuuri breathe out together, and Yuuri thinks he might cry when he turns his gaze to Victor, and sees something  _ awful  _ on Victor’s expression. 

“Victor,” Yuuri says desperately, his eyes burning with tears. “I didn’t. I  _ didn’t _ —”

“Don’t  _ talk  _ to him,” Victor’s father says sharply, standing between them. Behind him, Victor looks heartbroken. “You’re filth. I know what you did to my son.” 

“I—I didn’t take—I don’t—” Yuuri can’t  _ speak;  _ he can’t think. God, he can’t even breathe; he thinks he might pass out, and all he can see is Victor’s terrible expression.

“You drew this picture of my son,” Mr. Nikiforov says, gesturing wildly towards the drawing strewn on the table. For a brief moment, Yuuri thinks he’s going to hit him. Victor looks nauseous. 

“Father, he—” Victor starts, but Mr. Nikiforov turns to him, and Victor falls silent instantly.

“He took advantage of you. He’s a criminal; he wanted the diamond. That’s  _ all  _ he wanted,” Mr. Nikiforov says smoothly, with a hint of amusement, and something like doubt flickers in Victor’s eyes. 

“No!” Yuuri cries out despite himself, and it earns him a fist against his back, winding him. He groans. 

“But—he couldn’t have—” Victor says desperately. “I would have known.”

Mr. Nikiforov circles Victor, mumbling something in Victor’s ear that Yuuri cannot hear from this distance, but Victor’s cheeks are stained with colour, something like shame written on his face. Shame and heartbreak and all the things Yuuri never, ever wanted to see on Victor’s expression. It’s awful, and Yuuri wants to cry. 

“I didn’t take it,” Yuuri says, quieter than he intended. “They must’ve—”

“It was in  _ your  _ pocket,” Mr. Nikiforov says accusingly, cutting Yuuri off. 

“It isn’t even his pocket,” one of the officers says, holding up the coat. Yuuri’s stomach sinks. “Property of  Celestino Cialdini.”

“Ah, another first class passenger,” Victor’s father scoffs, turning to his son. Victor stares at the coat, his eyes flickering back to Yuuri with an expression like disbelief. Like  _ betrayal.  _ Yuuri wants to scream; wants to explain everything about how he’d borrowed the tux and then the jacket from Celestino and hasn’t returned it all yet, but he can’t make his mouth move, paralyzed by fear. “I told you; he’s a professional.”

“What should we do with this one?” the master-at-arms says, jabbing Yuuri in the back with what Yuuri thinks might be a gun. It pushes out all other thought, then—even the thought of Victor’s expression, because all Yuuri can think about is that gun. One move, and Yuuri will be dead. His heart thrums so hard that Yuuri can hear it; blood pounding in his ears. “Kill him?”

“Not yet,” Mr. Nikiforov says, taking a few slow steps towards Yuuri until the height difference between them feels suffocating. He feels like he’s drowning; the fear of everything so tangible that it feels like ice water in his lungs. “He raped my son. I want him to suffer.”

“No,” Victor says softly, like all the fight has died from him. It’s awful to hear; startlingly different from the Victor who had been alive with adrenaline and excitement and impulse two hours ago, the Victor who had been liberated and free and—he hates the knowledge that his father can do this to Victor, and he’d fight it, if he weren’t so acutely aware of the gun pressed to his spine, and the word ‘ _ rape’  _ echoing in his ears.

“What made you think you could put your filthy hands on a first class man?” Victor’s father snaps as Yuuri is dragged towards the door, handcuffs being fastened around his wrists. And it’s funny; it’s like they’ve come full circle, like the first night they met. Except this time, Victor does not seem to be so quick to defend Yuuri’s honour; his eyes are full of doubt.

“Victor,” Yuuri pushes the words out desperately. Even if the master at arms shoots him for speaking, for talking to Victor; he doesn’t care—it will be worth it, just to make Victor hear this—he has to—Victor has to  _ know.  _ “I didn’t take that necklace. I didn’t. They must have set me up, Victor, please, you have to  _ believe me _ .”

Victor stares at him. 

Yuuri wants to scream; he wants to struggle, but he  _ can’t.  _ They drag him roughly into the corridor, and the last thing Yuuri sees is Victor’s broken expression before the doors of Victor’s suite are slammed shut, and Yuuri is pulled down the corridor and towards the elevator.

* * *

 

 

Victor thinks he might be sick. He can’t think of anything else; just the awful reality of what has happened clouding his mind. He leans on the edge of the table, even as the rest of the officers leave, even as Mila retreats to her own rooms with her cheeks stained with tears. Even as Yuri passes him with an expression like nausea. Victor can’t move, or think of anything but  _ this.  _

He doesn’t know why it feels so  _ awful.  _ He wants to tell himself it’s pathetic, that he’s only known Yuuri for a few days, that he barely knows Yuuri  _ at all.  _ Oh, but he does—or he thought he did; all those moments, like the one sequestered away on the deck or in Victor’s rooms, or in the belly of the ship in the small space of the car. That had all been  _ real,  _ hadn’t it? Or had Victor really been so naive and so desperate for  _ that,  _ that he hadn’t noticed—but  _ Yuuri  _ had been real. He had been—different, from all the other men who had used Victor at dinner parties to get themselves off. Hadn’t he?

It feels like ice clutching his heart; slowing down its beating until all Victor can feel is the terrible, awful numbness that sits in his chest. He feels hollow. Not hollow enough that the realisation that he’s alone with his father does not spark fear in his veins, though. It does. Victor straightens when he realises, staring at his father leaning in the archway across from him, his fingers rubbing his brow.

Victor swallows.  _ Rape,  _ his father had called it. But Victor knows that’s not what his father thinks. His father knows—he  _ knows.  _ For a few moments, it looks as if Father is lost for words, confused almost, and then he takes a few careful steps towards Victor and opens his mouth to talk.

“I—” His father blinks, as if unable to fathom exactly how he feels. There’s something terrible in his eyes though—rage, and Victor has seen it before. His father snaps his mouth shut, lost for words to verbalise his anger. He lets his eyes slide shut, and waits. When his father is this angry, it isn’t usually his words that do the talking. 

Victor’s heart hammers. 

He’s expecting the punch when it arrives, but it doesn’t make it any better. Victor cries out, the pain of it splintering all his thoughts, and just manages to catch himself on the table before he falls. It burns, and Victor wants to cry—he opens his eyes, his vision blurry, and tries not to physically recoil in fear. He feels like a  _ child.  _

He chokes out a noise that sounds like a sob, bringing his hand up to his face to touch the place where he’d been hit, brushing away the blood on his lip. He keeps his vision fixed on the mantlepiece, away from his father.

“You filthy little  _ slut, _ ” his father growls, grabbing Victor’s wrist and pulling his hand away from his face. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Victor forces his gaze back to his father, even despite every ounce of fear in his body begging him not to. He takes a small step backwards, letting his back hit the table, and wishes it didn’t exist so he could back away—so he could—but that would be cowering, and that would make things worse. Victor learnt from experience that cowering makes things worse. Just like crying always made things worse.

He doesn’t speak; he knows he’s not supposed to. His own breathing is shallow in his own chest, almost as shallow as Father’s, but for wildly different reasons. Father’s grip on his wrist is so tight that it will bruise. Victor doesn’t pull his hand away; he just stares, eyes wide. For the first time, it dawns on Victor just how foolish it was to put the drawing in Father’s safe. With a  _ note.  _

“I’m sorry,” Victor says, almost pathetically. It is pathetic; it  _ sounds  _ pathetic, but Victor can’t help himself from saying it. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“For which part?” His father scoffs, voice thick with anger. Victor averts his gaze, desperately, and his father practically shakes him to get Victor’s eyes back on him. Victor represses a sob. “For being a filthy queer, or for spreading for his drawing like a slut? Or for letting him  _ steal  _ from us because you—”

“All of it,” Victor cuts him off, repressing another sob. “Please, _ all of it, _ I’m sorry, I—”

Father’s eyes flare again, and Victor knows he has lost when his father shifts back, a little. Victor cries out, almost helpless, and braces himself—

The door to the suite swings open, and Father steps back sharply as one of the stewards walks in. Victor presses his hand to his face; to where his skin burns with pain, and closes his eyes, breathing erratically. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” the steward starts, his cheerful voice jarring in the thick tension of the room. Victor tries not to cry.

“Not now,” Father snaps coolly. “Come back later.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Nikiforov, but the captain says—”

“I said  _ not now,”  _ Father snaps again, almost losing his composure. It’s not even aimed at him, and yet Victor still represses the urge to flinch. 

“You have to put your lifebelts on and go up to the deck,” the steward says slowly, walking into the adjacent room. Father starts pacing, running his hand over his face. “It’s chilly outside, so I would recommend you both wrap up.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” father waves his hand to dismiss the steward when he sets the lifebelts down on the table. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s the captain’s orders, Mr. Nikiforov,” the steward says. “I’ll go and let the rest of your family know.” 

“I’ll do it,” Victor says quickly, and tries to ignore the look that his father gives him. He collects one of the lifebelts in his arms, hugging it to his chest almost defensively, and stumbles a little clumsily towards the door. “I’ll tell them.”

Victor shuts the door behind him and leans on it, exhaling a heavy, shaky breath. The hallway between this room and the other suite is a small blessing, and Victor uses it to compose himself. His breathing is tremulous, even to his own ears, like the crashing of the ocean, and Victor closes his eyes. He can’t let the others see him like this, and so he takes a few moments to even out his breathing, until the urge to cry subsides. 

Then, he puts on his best front and pushes open the door to his mother’s suite. Yuri, Mother, and Mila are collected in there, their eyes fixed on him as he walks in. Well, everyone’s eyes but Mila’s; she chooses to stare at the tabletop, like she can’t even bear to look at him. He doesn’t blame her, really; not after  _ that.  _

“Vitya,” his mother starts, and Victor really, really does not think he can take another round of this.

“Not now,” Victor says briskly, putting the lifebelt down and rubbing at the blood on his lip with the back of his hand. “We have to go up to the deck. The steward just told us, and we need our lifebelts. Mother, you and Mila ought to go and get your coats or you’ll freeze.”

“Lifebelts?” Mother stares at him. “What  _ for? _ ”

“There was an iceberg,” Victor says numbly. It doesn’t feel real; none of this feels real. “I saw it crash. We have to go up to the deck.”

“Come on, Liliya,” Mila says softly, getting to her feet. She sounds defeated. Victor hates himself for it. “Let’s go and get our coats.” 

Victor waits until they are out of the room before heading towards the adjacent room where he knows the lifebelts must be stored and tries to ignore the way his fingers are trembling when he reaches for the door handle. The way the back of his hand is smeared with his own blood. 

“Vitya,” Yuri says, and Victor’s fingers slip from the doorknob. He swallows and turns on the spot to face his little brother, forcing his best smile.

“Yuri.” 

“Are you  _ stupid _ ?” Yuri asks bluntly, raising one of his eyebrows. Victor stares at him; he doesn’t need another lecture, or another argument, and he really hadn’t expected to receive one from Yuri of all people. “I told you that if you kept—I told you it was dangerous.”

“I know,” Victor replies softly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Yuri  _ had  _ warned him, and Victor had ignored him. And now everything is falling apart, and Yuuri is—Well, Victor doesn’t want to think about that right now. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Yuri shakes his head, a strand of blond hair falling into his eyes. “I’m surprised the master-at-arms didn’t arrest  _ you. _ ”

“Thanks,” Victor deadpans, rubbing a finger over the cut on his lip. Sharp words hurt less when they’re coming from Yuri; he doesn’t know if it’s because of the age difference, or if it’s a little brother thing, or if it’s because he knows Yuri doesn’t  _ really  _ mean it. Out of everyone, he knows Yuri means it the least. 

“I mean it,” Yuri says, then, and Victor suppresses the urge to sigh. “You could’ve died, and then who would’ve looked after your stupid dog?”

Victor shifts, leaning on the panelled door. He knows how hard Yuri has tried to be on his side about this; how Yuri had been the one to clean up his cuts years ago, how Yuri had helped him hide things from their father, even when he’d only been thirteen at the time. It feels almost—insensitive to have been so careless, after everything. “Sorry.”

“Shut up,” Yuri rolls his eyes. “I don’t want your apology, that’s disgusting. I just—If you die, I’m going to be the heir. I don’t want your stupid inheritance; I like my life.”

“Right,” Victor says slowly, letting his lips tug into a smile despite himself. “That’s what you’re bothered about. The inheritance.” 

“Yes. I don’t care what happens to  _ you, _ ” Yuri says, rolling his shoulders, and Victor feels a flicker of warmth in his chest, buried underneath all the awfulness of the past hour. “What you did was fucking crazy. You left that drawing in Father’s  _ safe. _ ”

“I know,” Victor blinks, like he still can’t believe he  _ did that. _

“That was—” Yuri stares at him. “Impressive.”

Victor blinks again, unsure that he heard his little brother right. “What—?”

“I mean, it was really stupid,” Yuri shrugs, and Victor laughs just a little, despite himself. “But I didn’t think you had it in you to do something like that. It was insane.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve said to me,” Victor beams at him. 

“Shut  _ up, _ ” Yuri slumps back into his chair, groaning loudly like he’s tired of Victor. He lets himself beam more, just to irritate his brother. It feels—wrong, almost, to be talking like this, and Victor knows he’s forcing himself through most of it, but Yuri makes it easier; Yuri’s never any different with him. “No, but really. You’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Victor brushes it off, thumbing over the cut on his lip; only inches away from the last one Father left. “I’ll go and get those lifebelts.” 

Victor turns to the door of the adjacent room and pulls it open, expecting to step inside and grab the lifebelts. Instead, he’s met by quite a lot of dog, leaping up at him and almost knocking him over. Victor lets out a laugh, trying to steady himself and calm Makkachin down, crouching down to pet him. Makkachin paws at his legs, reaching up to lick Victor’s face, almost as if sensing something, and Victor buries his fingers in Makkachin’s fur and sighs. 

“Come on,” he says, looping his fingers around Makkachin’s collar and letting him lap at Victor’s face again. “Let’s go and get the lifebelts. Wanna come walk up to the deck with us?” 

Makkachin yaps.

 

* * *

Yuuri thinks that somewhere between being forced out of the Nikiforov’s apartments and being marched below decks with a gun to his back, he must have stopped breathing. His vision is blurry at the edges; all of his focus is on the hard metal of the gun pressing into his spine, punctuated by the occasional shove as the valet pushes him forward. Every step sends a jolt of fear through Yuuri’s chest, until he feels so tense that he can hardly choke in a breath through his constricted lungs.

“Keep moving,” the valet grunts, when Yuuri pauses at the top of a staircase that leads to the lower decks. He remembers, uneasily, the scraping sound the iceberg had made against the side of the ship, the officers insisting that people take their life belts to the upper decks.

_ Everything’s going to be fine _ , Yuuri tries to reassure himself. It doesn’t work. 

He’s forced down four flights of stairs before the valet shoves him down one of the corridors in the lower decks and Yuuri almost stumbles over his own feet. The only thing keeping him upright is the constant reminder of the valet’s gun. The corridors down here are eerily quiet; devoid of passengers and that usually relentless shudder of the engines, louder here than anywhere else on the ship. But Yuuri can’t hear anything, just the thudding of his own heart. 

They drag him down one of the crew passages and into one of the rooms on the left; a tiny office that must belong to the master-at-arms. Not like it matters; Yuuri is going to die here.  _ God.  _ He closes his eyes when they shove him against the furthest wall and tries his hardest to repress a reaction, biting down on a noise before he makes it. The master-at-arms tugs at his arms—Yuuri hadn’t even noticed that he’d been walking with them—and handcuffs his wrists around one of the thick pipes. Yuuri curls himself towards it, trying to keep himself upright. 

“I’m supposed to be up on the deck,” the master-at-arms says to the valet, running his fingers over his stubble. Yuuri presses his forehead to the cool metal and tries to make his breathing  _ work.  _

“Go,” the valet replies, holding up his gun. “I can watch him.”

Being trapped by the master-at-arms is bad enough, but somehow Yuuri thinks this is worse. Around them, the ship creaks; the slow groaning of metal, and Yuuri is reminded that there is more than one danger here. The thought hits him like ice water, which is ironic really, and Yuuri tilts his head to look out of the small, round window, water already sloshing against the glass.  _ Don’t kill him yet,  _ Victor’s father had said, because drowning is a slower death. Yuuri represses a whimper, his vision blurring from the dizzying fear of it all— _ he’s going to die here. _

“You know,” the valet says almost conversationally, except Yuuri can hear something cruel in his voice. “I do believe this ship might sink.”

Yuuri doesn’t respond, just presses himself to the cool iron wall and tries his best to stay upright. 

“I’ve been asked to give you something,” the valet says, taking a few slow steps towards Yuuri. Panic flares in his mind, his heart hammering, but there’s nothing he can do to escape. He tugs on the handcuffs a little in desperation, but the metal bites into his skin. He thinks he might be sick. “On behalf of Mr. Nikiforov.” 

The valet’s fist connects with Yuuri’s abdomen, then, and Yuuri’s whole vision blots out with pain. The butt of the gun is still in his hand, and Yuuri can’t  _ breathe.  _ He chokes out a noise, collapsing down the wall as much as he can with the handcuffs still chaining him to the piping, and lets out a sob. He wonders if the valet is going to hit him again—if this is how it’s going to go before he dies and—But the valet straightens, tucking the gun into the holster, his eyes flickering to the water lapping against the window.

“I don’t think I need to stay here,” the valet says, something like vague amusement in his voice, and then Yuuri is left alone. He presses his eyes shut when the door shuts, letting out painful sobs that ache through his abdomen as the ship groans slowly around him.

Yuuri is going to die, and for some reason the only thing he can think about is the awful look on Victor’s face when the officer had pulled the necklace out of Yuuri’s pocket.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a [pinterest board](https://uk.pinterest.com/laurxnts/the-ship-of-dreams/) for this fic, and you can also follow us both on tumblr and twitter (alex: [tumblr](http://laurxnts.tumblr.com), [twitter](https://twitter.com/llaurentofvere)) and (emma: [tumblr](http://jvstens.co.vu), [twitter](https://twitter.com/verelesbian))  
> Thanks!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Uh. Hi, guys. It's been six months. And we are so, so sorry about that, but this fic is NOT ABANDONED and we WILL FINISH IT i PROMISE. The very last chapter has already been written so this fic is gonna probably wrap up at 11 chapters, with 9 and 10 devoted entirely to the Grand Sinking. We've been reading all your comments and all your pleas to Please Dont Kill Yuuri and really, we make no promises, but I repeat this fic is NOT ABANDONED so you WILL FIND OUT EVENTUALLY. We've also learned to make no promises about the updating schedule, so the closest estimate I can give you for chapter 9 is At Some Point Definitely. I'm so sorry.
> 
> If you've stuck with this fic for this long then thank you so much!!! I know this isn't our longest chapter, but I don't think it will disappoint, even for a bit of filler.

The Grand Staircase looks far less impressive when crowded with clusters of disgruntled first class passengers, Victor learns. The corridors and stairs are littered with first class passengers bundled into life jackets, and the whole experience looks surreal—everything feels _surreal_ right now. He walks a few steps behind his father, passing the clock he met Yuuri at after dinner only a few nights ago, and forces Yuuri out of his mind.

“Make sure my room is warm by the time I return,” Victor hears one of the passengers say to their maid as he passes. He swallows past something lodged in his throat and keeps his eyes fixed on the back of his father’s form. Yuri is quiet beside him and, even further behind them, Mila walks with his mother in silence.

“This is ridiculous,” his father says, reaching the bottom of the staircase, and Victor does not bother to make eye contact. In fact, he doesn't dare to. “What exactly are we being sent here for?”

Victor leans carefully on the pillar, his eyes flickering up the line of the grand staircase, past the crowds, and looks at the clock. He remembers the note, scrawled in Yuuri’s handwriting, and—before that—remembers how it had felt to walk past that clock and see Yuuri waiting nervously in the corner of the lobby. How had that all been fake? Victor forces it down; pushes the thoughts away, and turns his gaze back to his father.

“I saw the iceberg,” Victor says, quieter than he intends, and his father’s sharp gaze falls on him. Victor chews, somewhat masochistically, on the fresh cut on his lip. He tastes blood on his tongue. “I don’t think this is just a drill.”

“Really,” his father drawls slowly, as if he does not want Victor’s opinion right now. Victor takes it for the reprimand that it is and nods, averting his gaze. His eyes fall on Mila, by chance, and her expression looks dead.

“I'm hungry,” Yuri complains beside him. “Do you think they're serving food?”

The utter indifference bleeding from every first class passenger, including his own family, comes as a shock to Victor. He's no stranger to apathy, but apathy had been different to this—apathy had been the inability to make himself care about wedding plans; about his future; about his life. Apathy had been staring at the dark stretch of water that rolled out behind the ship and thinking that death would be better than _this._ Victor wonders how so many of them can be so unconcerned about the possibility of an iceberg; perhaps they all suspect they’ll be ushered off the ship or out of trouble effortlessly—safety handed to them on the same silver platter that everything else comes. But then, Victor knows that life is not always handed on a silver platter. If it were, then becoming his father would not be so difficult. If it were, Victor would not have strayed the way he had these past few days.

Victor shoves those thoughts away, again.

The ship’s carpenter—or architect, perhaps—passes them, and Victor doesn't even realise he has a question for him until his arm is wrapped around the man’s bicep.

“Sir,” Victor says, and ignores his father's hot, sharp gaze. “I saw the iceberg, up on the deck. I saw it. I don't want to be lied to. How bad is it?”

The architect’s eyes pass over their family: Victor and his father, and behind them, Yuri and Mila, and his mother. Something in his eyes softens, and he turns his gaze back to Victor. “The ship is going to sink.”

Victor thinks he's going to be sick. He opens his mouth to speak and snaps it shut, lost for words. _The ship is going to sink._ People are going to _die_ —Victor remembers being warned about the iciness of that water, and tries hard not to think about who exactly it was who warned him.

“But that's impossible,” his father says, taking a step forward until he stands besides Victor.

“I saw the iceberg,” Victor repeats, numbly.

“You have to get your family to lifeboats,” the architect says, and Victor feels a small slight of shock at the realisation the architect is talking to _Victor._ He sees his father slighted by it too, something tense setting into his shoulders, but Victor lifts his chin and nods.

“I will,” Victor says, determined. His father exhales.

“You can't wait,” the architect hurries the words out, urgent. “You remember—”

And he doesn't need to finish the sentence, because then Victor _does_ remember. The lifeboats. Only enough for half on board. Victor thinks he's going to be sick—half the people—and Victor thinks about the third class deck, and then forces himself not to think at all.

“Oh, God.” Victor takes a step back. “I remember. I—thank you. I understand.”

“ _What_?” His father snaps sharply, his hand gripping Victor’s arm and spinning him to face him. Victor tries not to flinch. “What is it?”

“The lifeboats,” Victor says, his voice dead. “There aren't enough for everyone. We have to go to the boats.”

Mila makes a small noise, her hand pressed to her mouth, and Victor watches his father’s eyes flicker to his own wife—Victor’s mother. It’s a strange experience to have his father meet his eyes and nod, some kind of silent understanding between the two of them; Victor has never really had that with his father, and he certainly did not expect it _now._ Victor had always thought, really, that if his father were to ever _find out_ —well, Victor had certainly not pictured this; walking by his father’s side, leading the rest of their family up to the decks. Some kind of silent acceptance, except, Victor knows that is not what this really is; this is necessity. He can see the tight line of his father’s shoulders, the way he has to force himself to allow Victor anywhere near them without snapping. For the sake of this—an _emergency._ Victor’s father is fighting a billion urges, like dangling a match over gasoline and trying very hard not to drop it.

Victor tugs open the door to the decks, cool icy air bleeding into the corridor, and his father steps through it before he can. The others file through too and Victor is left holding the door—not some gentleman-like gesture, but as if this is what he has been relegated to now; a servant’s job. His mother’s eyes land on his, and Victor has to look away.

A few paces down the deck, the band from dinner is playing something slow and melodic. Victor remembers hearing the same music at dinner; remembers how he’d imagined himself dancing to music like this. He has the sudden, strange urge to cry, or break their instruments, or—and then Victor realises this might be the area of the deck he and Yuuri walked together on that first morning after they’d met, and suddenly all Victor wants to do is laugh.

His father leads them to a row of lifeboats, and Victor thinks he overhears one of the stewards calling women and children only into the boats, and that’s fine—Victor doesn’t care much about anything right now. But then, Victor thinks of his little brother, and wonders if there’s _something_ they can do at least to get Yuri onto a boat. Half the people on this boat are going to _die._

A woman bundles past them, cradling a baby to her chest, and clambers into one of the lifeboats. Her clothing is frayed and—she’s Japanese. Victor wants to laugh; actually, no, he wants to _scream._

“Aren’t the lifeboats going to be seated according to class?” He hears his mother say when her eyes fall on the young mother, something like distaste in her voice. Victor stills, staring out at the vast, continuous stretch of darkness beyond the edge of the ship, and feels his stomach lurch. Incredulous, he turns to look at his mother, and thinks he might throw up. She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her own ear, and laughs. “I really hope they’re not too crowded, I don’t want to be sitting near—”

“Mother, shut _up,_ ” Victor snaps before he can stop the words slipping from his tongue. His mother jumps, turning to stare at him, and Victor can see his father fixing an icy gaze on him. He chooses to ignore it; chooses not to look at it. In fact, Victor doesn’t care about his father right now. “Don’t you understand? This ship is going to sink. The water is freezing, and there aren’t enough boats.”

His mother takes a small step back, her eyes passing to the young Japanese mother again. “I—”

Victor’s own voice sounds distant to his own ears. “Half the people on this boat are going to die.”

From his right, Victor hears his father scoff, mumbling just loud enough for Victor and his mother to hear. “Not the better half.”

Victor freezes, his breath catching in his lungs. It feels like being drenched in ice water, yet—yet being drenched in ice water is too sudden of a feeling to describe _this._ This doesn’t feel like ice water; it feels like being immersed in it all your life, and only just realising you hadn’t noticed until now. Victor stops, turning to look at his father with every inch of his self control working to hold himself very, very still. He thinks he can see a smirk on his father’s lips and— _fuck._ ‘Not the better half’, and Victor thinks of the lower decks where he’d danced with Yuuri, and where Yuuri is _now._

_Yuuri._

He thinks about how he’d stood here, earlier today, and Victor had _kissed him,_ and it had been the truest thing Victor had ever felt. He wonders how he hadn’t seen this coming the first time his father hurt him; or the second, or the third, and he thinks maybe he _did,_ and chose not to trust his instincts out of some convoluted belief that Victor was never going to have something _good._

But he did—he _does,_ and that something good is currently locked in the belly of a sinking ship. Victor thinks he’s going to be sick.

The dark expanse of icy ocean stretches out around them and Victor’s breath streaks white in the night sky, and three days ago Victor had thought about jumping into that water and ending it. And Yuuri had _saved him._ Yuuri had saved him in every way that a person can be saved, and Victor had _let him go._

“You unimaginable bastard,” Victor whispers, only just loud enough to be heard over the sound of one of the distress flares streaking into the sky. It erupts, and Victor’s gaze is dragged away for a moment, tilting his head up at the sky, and the golden trails of light that flicker down to the surface of the water. He feels the vibrations of the explosion in his chest, rattling his heart, and Victor thinks his heart might’ve been beating differently since he met Yuuri.

The sparks of light sizzle when they touch the water, dissolving into nothing but darkness, and then Victor knows what he has to do. He turns, as carefully and controlled as he can, and looks at all his family, before his eyes fall on his brother.

“Goodbye, Yuri,” Victor says, as evenly as he can, and thinks he hears Yuri mumble the word _no_ under his breath. He turns, with more motivation in his steps than he’s had in _years,_ and sets off across the deck. He resists the urge to run; to run and run and _run,_ and then someone’s hand grips his arm, and tugs him back.

“Let me go,” Victor snaps, turning to face his father, staring at the cold, sharp anger in his father’s eyes that threatens to splinter into something violent and burning. Victor thinks he might hit him again, and wonders why he doesn’t care—he has to get back to Yuuri.

“Where are you going?” His father demands, incredulously, and Victor struggles against the grip on his arms. “To be—to be a _whore_ to that gutter rat?!”

Victor stares, his breathing shallow in his chest. “I’d rather be his whore than your son.”

He watches his father’s expression change; something like shock laced with disgust, and Victor feels _triumphant._ It feels almost as freeing as it had when he’d slipped off the robe and let Yuuri draw him; when he’d lain underneath Yuuri in that car. But Victor’s not free yet, and his father’s hands are still tight on his arms. So Victor doesn't think about it; he arches back, and spits in his father’s face. It shocks his father enough to let go of him, and Victor takes a sharp step backwards, something unnamable coursing through him that is at least 50% fear. The other 50%, though, is something like freedom; like liberation; the act of spitting in his father’s face is wildly empowering, and terrifying, and Victor’s breathing is laboured.

Victor wrenches himself away from his father’s reach and doesn't bother to stay to watch his father, disgusted, in disbelief, wiping the saliva from his cheek. Victor runs. He runs through the already panicked and frantic crowd, and doesn't retain his manners when he collides with confused and concerned first class passengers, looking for a boat to safety.

 _This ship is going to sink,_ Victor thinks.

_And Yuuri is trapped down there._

Victor knows he has to save him. After all, it was Yuuri that saved Victor in every way imaginable, and Victor thinks he ought to repay the favour—thinks he’d rather die himself than let Yuuri get hurt. Soft, beautiful, gentle, shy Yuuri; Yuuri who is so kind when the world has not been kind to him at all.

And—fuck, Victor _loves_ him. It's impossible; it's impossible that he can love him so soon after they met, but he _does._ Victor is in _love_ with him.

So, Victor runs.

* * *

Yuuri’s wrists are bleeding. He’s lost track of how many times he’s pulled against the metal handcuffs, trying with every ounce of his hard-won strength to dislodge the pipe that the chain is linked around. It’s no use, though—as he braces himself against the wall, water licking up his calves, he knows that there’s no point to it.

He’s going to die down here. He doesn’t even know why he’s fighting it. The last thing he might have had to live for is gone; he has nothing waiting for him in America, and no one left on this ship save Phichit who cares if he lives or dies. His parents would be okay—he’s sent them sporadic letters, over the last few years, but he doesn't have any way of knowing if any of them had arrived. None of them can write; Mari and his parents can barely read. Yuuri wouldn’t—they won’t—it won’t matter, if those letters suddenly stop coming.

It takes him a long moment to realize that he’s breathing fast, too fast. Yuuri’s head is starting to spin, and he forces himself to hold his breath, to wait for a long moment before letting it out. He can’t do this right now. He needs to focus on getting out of here. The water is rising higher every second he waits, almost at his knees now.

There had been stories, back when he and Phichit were working in gangs in Eastern Europe, about men who broke their hands to get out of chains when they were arrested, who slipped through them by breaking something—their thumbs, maybe? Yuuri has no idea how to do that, but it’s possibly his only chance of getting out of the handcuffs. The pipe isn’t budging, and the ship is groaning around him like it’s going to implode in on itself.

Except—amid the groaning and splashing, Yuuri thinks that he hears something else. A voice, water splashing that doesn’t sound quite natural, like someone wading through it. He can’t hear what the voice is saying, but it’s getting closer, and Yuuri strains to hear—maybe he can call out—

“Yuuri!”

“Victor!” Yuuri cries out. He can barely believe it, but that’s _Victor’s_ voice, calling for him from somewhere in the maze of hallways below the deck. “Victor, I’m here!”

“Yuuri!” Victor calls again, and he sounds closer, and again closer still, until—

“Victor,” Yuuri gasps, when Victor finally appears in the doorway, slacks soaked from the thigh down, face flushed and eyes wide.

“Yuuri, I’m sorry,” Victor replies, and he flings himself at Yuuri. Yuuri wishes he could reciprocate, to put his arms around Victor and pull him close and— “I’m so, so sorry.”

“The valet,” Yuuri says, because even if Victor doesn’t believe him he has to say _something_. “He put it in my pocket, I didn’t—”

“I know, I know.” Victor kisses him, and Yuuri wants to let himself get caught up in it but his heart is still pounding in his chest and the water is so, so _cold_.

“Can you find a key?” Yuuri asks, eyes darting towards the desk. Victor sloshes through the water towards it, and Yuuri keeps tugging fruitlessly at the handcuffs. One of them is bloody, now, and the cuts on his wrists sting, but he can’t make himself stop. “It’s brass, I think, and small. Victor, how did you—how did you find out that I didn’t—?”

He cuts himself off, and Victor glances up from the desk drawers, his hair falling away from where it’s been plastered to his face. And, oh god—

“He hit you,” Yuuri blurts out, before he can stop himself. Victor freezes in his frantic rummaging, for barely a second, and he ducks his head again.

“I didn’t find out,” he says, quiet enough that it’s hard to hear over the sound of the water. “I realized that I already knew.”

Yuuri stands, his wrists gone limp, for a long moment after that. The water laps at his knees, and Yuuri steps up onto a nearby bench, his pants sticking to his skin. He’s shivering, just a little bit. Victor finishes going through the drawers, and when he closes the last one with a bang he looks up, helpless.

“There’s no key,” he says. Yuuri closes his eyes, and lets out a soft breath.

“You have to leave.” It’s the hardest thing he’s ever said. Victor opens his mouth, as if he’s going to protest, and Yuuri cuts him off. “You have to go for help.”

Victor nods, every inch of his face solemn. “I’ll be right back.”

Yuuri watches his back as Victor struggles out of the room, fighting for speed against the water on the ground. He rests his head against the cold metal of the pipe he’s chained to and exhales out a shaking breath. He’s going to make it out of here. Maybe—maybe he’s going to live. More improbable things have happened; Victor came for him, after all.

Long minutes pass and Yuuri’s heartbeat starts to pick up in his chest. Victor wouldn’t leave him, but—what if something happened? What if he got caught by someone else, what if he tripped and fell into the water, what if—

Yuuri swallows down all of the thoughts crowding in his head, and glances down at the rising water. It’s lapping at his calves on the bench, the cold seeping into his skin like needles. It’s getting harder and harder to control his breathing, and his glasses are fogged up from the warmth of his breath in the frigid air, and the belly of the ship is groaning around him like a dying beast.

“Yuuri!” Victor gasps from the doorway. Yuuri’s head snaps up, and it takes him a moment to absorb the sight. The water is up to Victor’s chest, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead. He’s holding an emergency axe, the blade a vivid red, and Yuuri has to fight back a hysterical laugh. This can’t be happening. “Will this work?”

“We have to try,” Yuuri replies, eyeing the axe warily. Victor sets his jaw, pushing his way through the water with his knuckles almost white around the handle. Yuuri stretches out his hands, trying to get the chain in a decent position, and Victor raises the axe uncertainly.

“Wait!” Yuuri cries, and Victor pulls back sharply, an instant away from bringing it down. “Could you—um. Do a couple practice swings?”

“Okay,” Victor gasps out. He’s shaking, in nothing but his shirtsleeves and suspenders. He and Yuuri are in almost the same thing, except Victor’s clothing obviously isn’t almost two years old, and won on labor jobs to boot.

Victor swings the axe into a cabinet that’s bobbing in the water, leaving a gaping hole that has Yuuri swallowing down panic.

“Okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “Now try and hit the same mark again.”

Victor swings, and the axe hits the cabinet half a foot away from the first mark. Yuuri stares, and tries not to think about what bleeding to death on a sinking ship would feel like.

“I think that’s enough practice,” Yuuri tells him, and his voice sounds faint even to his own ears. He braces himself against the pipe, spreading his wrists as far apart as they will go. His skin stings, his heart pounds in his ears. “Come back over here, come on.”

“Okay,” Victor breathes, and adjusts his grip on the axe. He’s not holding it quite right; Yuuri has more experience with this sort of thing, and both of them know it.

“Move your hands farther apart. Like that, okay. Just—hit it as hard as you can. I trust you.” It’s not a lie. It might be the truest thing that Yuuri has ever said. Victor takes a deep, shuddering breath, and braces himself.

Yuuri can’t watch. He turns his head away, pressing the side of his forehead against the cold metal of the pipe, and—

The chain of the handcuffs snaps with a loud _clang_ of metal on metal, and Yuuri’s arms wrench apart. He turns back to Victor, just in time to see him opening his eyes. Wait—

“You _closed your eyes?”_ He asks, dumbfounded. Victor stares at him, eyes wide now in shock. “Victor!”

Victor opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “Well, I didn’t think—”

Instead of letting him finish, Yuuri launches himself at Victor, silencing him with a messy kiss. He has to break it a second later, gasping as he submerges himself chest-deep in the freezing water.

“Come on,” Yuuri says, arms still wrapped around Victor because— _fuck_ , just half an hour ago he thought he’d never _see_ him again. “Victor, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Having Yuuri back feels more dizzying and more overwhelming than Victor had ever expected. It’s barely been an hour since they last saw each other and yet, having Yuuri by his side, their fingers entwined, feels more grounding than anything Victor has ever experienced. Having Yuuri back feels like taking his first, desperate lungful of oxygen after battling with currents of water—like finding the first drop of water in miles of desert land. Victor knows it’s illogical that Yuuri means _so much_ when they’ve only known each other for three days—if that—but Yuuri is the truest thing Victor has ever felt, has ever experienced.

And he almost _lost him._

It isn’t something Victor has time to think about, right now, because they’re not safe yet; the water is already reaching past their waist and Victor saw how fast it was cascading down the staircase. But the thought is there, in the back of his mind, every time he feels Yuuri’s fingers shift between his own—he almost _lost him;_ he almost believed his father for one stupid second, and let Yuuri go.

Victor thinks coming back for Yuuri might be the only important thing he’ll ever do with his life; nothing else matters, compared to that.

“Victor,” Yuuri says urgently from somewhere behind him, the flickering lights overhead playing with Victor’s sense of spacial awareness. All he knows is Yuuri is behind him, and their hands are still entwined. “Which way—?”

Yuuri is barely able to mask the panic in his voice, the idea that they might die here far too real and too close for both of them. Victor will have to be strong enough for the both of them. He wades through the water, shivering at the way it sloshes up his sides, almost to his armpits, and weaves his way through the labyrinth of corridors, trying to retrace his steps. It’s harder than he expects it to be, and the biting cold of the water doesn’t make it any easier, especially when Yuuri’s hand keeps slipping out of his.

“This is the way out,” Victor says, voice sounding dead to his own ears as he stares down the length of the corridor, to the water that cascades out of the stairwell, blocking off the exit. He can feel his own heart beating desperately in his chest, panic threatening to swell, but it’s fine—it’s fine.

If Victor dies here, then that’s fine; he’s three days late anyway. But _Yuuri._ Victor swallows. He came down here to save Yuuri, and he won’t—he won’t let him die here. Beautiful, wonderful Yuuri ought to have a whole life stretching out ahead of him. Not here, not _now._

“ _Victor,_ what are we—” Yuuri starts, voice trembling and achingly quiet against the sound of the water, and the metal creaking, and the crackle of the electricity and—God it’s too _much._ The lights flicker ominously, like some sort of nightmare, and Victor _won’t_ let Yuuri die like this. It’s too awful of a place to die; too awful for a boy like Yuuri Katsuki.

Victor grabs Yuuri’s hand again and spins then, tugging Yuuri down the corridor, pushing his way through the water with as much speed as he can.

“This won’t be the only exit,” Victor says, determination lacing his voice. He sounds far more confident than he feels, but that’s okay, because he feels Yuuri squeeze his hand. “There’s at least two stairwells leading down, I remember, so we’ll go up the other one.”

“What if—” Yuuri whispers, and the lights above them crackle and spark, leaving them in a semi-darkness that’s lit only by the occasional, feeble flickering of the light. Yuuri makes an awful noise in his throat and Victor thinks about crying when he hears it.

“There’s another exit,” Victor says, a little louder, and drags them through the water, sighing slightly when he feels the water level receding. The boat must be at an angle above, and Victor wonders how much worse the deck will look since Victor has been down here. He finds the other stairwell, the place where the water finally ends and the corridor is dry beneath their feet, and Yuuri makes a sound that sounds like a sob of relief.

“You did it,” Yuuri says, in awe almost, and Victor turns to him and grins brightly.

“Did you doubt that I would?” Victor says, feigning offense, and it all feels too ridiculous since they’re staring death in the eye. Yuuri stares at him, his breathing shallow in his chest, and Victor can see that he’s shivering; his well worn shirt is plastered to him with ice-cold Atlantic water.

“No,” Yuuri breathes out, and Victor closes the space between them. Their lips are freezing cold and they’re both shaking too much for it to be anything more than an insubstantial press of their lips, but Yuuri clings to Victor like he’s _everything._ Victor pulls back, then, because they don’t have any time to spare, and pulls Yuuri up the stairwell, up the two flights of stairs until he hears _noise_ coming from the stairwell above them. Victor holds his arm out to stop Yuuri from walking further, in case it’s danger—because right now, anything could be danger.

Then, they hear shouting and Yuuri is pushing past Victor’s makeshift barrier and running up into the next stairwell.

“Phichit!” Yuuri cries, and Victor follows, too dumbstruck by the scene in front of him to bother talking. There’s a crowd of third class passengers, scrambling desperately at the gates that have been locked tight by stewards. Stewards with _guns_ , shouting things about how they need to _wait._ Victor is reminded, awfully, of his father. Of his family’s awful sense of priority, of one life being worth more than another.

Victor sways on the spot, nausea washing over him. He feels as if he can almost hear it; the water that’s creeping its way up the stairwell, towards the third class passengers that are locked here like caged _animals._ Victor wonders how he’s been so blind all his life; how hadn’t he _noticed_ before now, before Yuuri, what the very bedrock of his family’s wealth was built on?

“Phichit,” Yuuri says again, grabbing his friend’s wrist and tugging him out of the crowd. “Oh my god, you’re—”

“Yuuri,” Phichit cries, something desperate in his voice, and it hits Victor truly for the first time that this boat can and will start claiming victims; that not everyone here is going to survive. “You’re alive; I kept looking for you and I thought, maybe—”

“I’m alive,” Yuuri echoes, like it’s impossible to believe for him too. “What’s going on?”

“They won’t—Yuuri, they won’t let us through,” Phichit says, his voice small. “They said we have to wait for them to get the first class people into the boats.”

“Oh, my god,” Victor breathes out, and thinks about how there aren’t enough boats for even half the passengers; there aren’t enough boats for first class, let alone for the poor. They don’t stand a chance. Most of the people in this room are going to die. “They’re only letting women and children onto the boats upstairs, I—”

Victor looks around. There are _children_ in here. “Do they know there are children in here?”

Yuuri swallows, and the grim expression that sits on Phichit and Yuuri’s face tells Victor that the stewards know, and they just don’t care. A third class child is less of an asset than a first class one. Victor thinks he might throw up.

“We have to get out of here,” Victor says, turning to Yuuri with a breathless, helpless smile. “Scale a sinking ship; rescue a prisoner; cut handcuffs with an axe... what’s breaking out of this compared to all of that?”

“You’re insane,” Yuuri whispers, and there’s that flicker of awe in Yuuri’s voice again; that flicker of light that keeps Victor going even through all these awful moments. Because Yuuri _loves him,_ and that’s the beginning and end of everything.

“What—are you doing down here?” Phichit asks, suddenly, and Victor has to tear his eyes away from Yuuri. “You’re first class.”

Victor shrugs, as if they’re discussing the weather and not their possible approaching deaths. “I couldn’t leave Yuuri behind.”

Phichit’s eyes soften. “Then let’s get out of here.”

They push through the crowd, struggling to the front, and Victor digs his palms into the railing so hard it almost cuts his skin. “Let us through.”

“Get back,” the steward says, voice dismissive, the gun lax in his hand. “We’re bringing women and children to the front—”

“Let us _through,_ ” Victor snaps, rattling the gates. “They’re not animals, you can’t—the boat is _sinking.”_

“You think I don’t know that?” The steward laughs, almost hysterically. “Get back, and bring the women and children to the front.”

“You can’t—” Yuuri says, by his side, finding confidence. “You can’t lock us in here! Victor is from _first class._ ”

The steward looks at Yuuri, and then back at Victor. “You?” The steward asks, and Victor nods. He wonders if it will matter, but he finds out moments later because the steward laughs. “If you’re in first class, what are you doing down here with a Ja—”

Victor doesn’t let him finish. He reaches through the bars and grabs the steward by the shirt, tugging him forward until he slams into the gate separating them. “These people will die if you don’t let us out.”

“ _Victor,_ ” Yuuri breathes, somewhat shocked by Victor’s outburst. Victor’s shocked too, in a way, because he’s never—he doesn’t have a violent streak, and he certainly doesn’t have a temper, but this is Yuuri’s _life_ hanging in the balance and Victor is done with being polite; done with manners and patience and all the things his parents drilled into him. This is life or death, and Victor is saving Yuuri’s life even if it kills him.

“Let go of me,” the steward says and then Victor becomes acutely aware that he has a gun. He pulls back, scrambling down the staircase to look for something _else;_ something that won’t get him shot before he’s even gotten the rest of the passengers out of the stairwell. He sees a bench, nailed to the floor, and wonders just how sturdy white star line construction is down in third class.

“Yuuri, Phichit,” Victor says, gesturing to the bench. “Help me do the honours?”

Yuuri laughs, half in disbelief. “Victor, you’re—”

“I know,” Victor says, and starts tugging desperately on the bench, with Yuuri and Phichit’s help. Around them, third class passengers start to part, making way for them to come through when they eventually dislodge the bench, and Victor thinks he sees a few of them breathe for the first time—like they might actually make it out of this alive.

Victor can’t promise that, but he can at least give them a fighting chance.

The bench comes free after a few forceful tugs, and Victor didn’t expect anything less—everything in third class is done with half effort, like they’re not _worth it_ and Victor might’ve thought the same, three days ago, but now, with Yuuri by his side, surrounded by these passengers, Victor thinks they might be worth _more._

Victor pulls the bench towards the gates, Yuuri and Phichit behind him, and ensures that he’s at the front—if the steward decides to pull the trigger, then Victor will take the bullet. Not Yuuri. Yuuri has to survive.

“Stop that,” the steward calls, taking a few steps back. “Put that down! Stop that!”

They take a few steps backwards and then slam the bench into the gates, repeating the action moments later. The steward is staring at them, stumbling backwards as he realises he may soon have something akin to a stampede on his hands. Victor notices, in the back of his mind, that the steward has no intention of using his gun.

The realisation propels him forward with more force, slamming the bench hard against the gates and feeling them buckle and come apart under the weight. Victor doesn’t know if the steward runs; he can’t tell, because third class passengers are clambering to freedom, scrambling over the bench and through the gap, desperate to get _out._ Victor feels proud, almost, but it doesn’t last long, because—freedom or not, there are still not enough boats. Not enough boats, and Yuuri is still down here.

It takes a moment for Victor to find him again in the crowd, and Yuuri is staring at him; wide-eyed and breathless like this whole experience is _surreal_ —well, because it is—and Victor grips his hand, tugging him through the gates. Phichit is by their side, now, and Victor wonders how much luck they’re going to have on the deck; they’re three men, after all. Three men in which two thirds of them are third class, and not white.

Victor knows it’s improbable that they will make it out of this alive, but they have to at least _try._ This whole experience, from the moment Victor hung from the back of that ship and heard Yuuri’s voice behind him, has been improbable. Victor thinks _unsinkable_ is the wrong word to describe the titanic. He thinks a better word is _impossible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the [fic pinterest;](https://www.pinterest.com/laurxnts/the-ship-of-dreams/) find us on twitter [here](http://www.twitter.com/llaurentofvere) and [here.](http://www.twitter.com/verelesbian)


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